THE  WAYFARER 

IN 

NEW  YORK 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 

MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  WAYFARER 


IN 


NEW  YORK 


INTRODUCTION   BY 

EDWARD   S.    MARTIN 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1909 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,   1909, 
By    the    MACMILLAN    COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1909. 


Noriuooti  i^rees 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


/• 
W3^ 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


Introduction  . 

From  the  Log  of  Robert  Juet 


.     Ediuard  S.  Martin 
Purchas  His  Pilgrimes 


FROM  THE   BATTERY  TO  TRINITY 

The  Price  of  Manhattan  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer 
The  First  Account  of  New  York  Printed  in  the  English 

Language Daniel  Denton 

Boy  wanted,  1658 J.  Alrichs 

A  Schoolmaster's  Duties,  1661  .  Adriaen  Hegeviati,  Secy. 
Why  the  Dutch  Surrendered  .  The  West  India  Compa^iy 
New  York  in  1679     .         .  J.  Danker s  and  P.  Sluyter 

When  New  York  was  Like  a  Garden,  1 748         Peter  Kalm 


New-York  in  1760     . 
A  Mass  Meeting  in  1794   . 
Fashions  in  New  York  in  1 797 
An  Old  New  York  Salon   . 
The  Battery  in  1804  . 
As  seen  by  Mrs.  Trollope  in  1831 
As  Dickens  saw  the  City  in  1842 
The  March  of  the  Seventh  Regiment  down  Broadway,  1861 

Theodore  Wi^ithrop 
The  Great  Panic  of  1873  .  .  .  .  H.  C.  Bunner 
The  Two  Cities  ....     Thomas  B.  Aldrich 

The  Aquarium  and  the  Docks  .         .      John  C.  Van  Dyke 

V 


Andrew  Burnaby 

Grant  Thorburn 

.    R.  Huntington 

Gertrude  Atherton 

IVashiftgton  Irving 

Mrs.  T.  A.  Trollope 

.  Charles  Dickens 


4 


LIBRARY 


6 

7 

9 

10 

II 

14 
16 
20 

23 
26 

30 
Zl 
39 

42 
43 
45 
46 


Table  of  Contents 


PAGE 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World 

Edmund  C.  Stedman 

56 

From  the  Deck  of  the  Cunarder 

.    G.  IV.  Sieevens 

58 

Ellis  Island        .... 

Edward  A.  Steiner 

59 

The  Financial  Centre  of  America 

James  Bryce 

63 

Pan  in  Wall  Street    . 

Edmund  C.  Stedman 

65 

New  York  in  a  Fog  . 

Arthur  Stringer 

68 

The  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street    . 

,     H.  C.  Bunner 

71 

The  Exchanges 

John  C.  Van  Dyke 

72 

Old  Trinity  Churchyard      . 

.    John  F.  Mines 

75 

In  Old  Trinity  .... 

Mabel  Osgood  Wright 

77 

II 


WITHIN   HALF  A   MILE  OF  CITY   HALL 

New  York's  Greatest  Pageant  .  William  Alexander  Dtier 
Spring  in  Town  .         .         .       William  Cullen  Bryant 

As  a  Young  Reporter  Sees  New  York  Jesse  Lynch  Williams 
The  Poets  of  Printing  House  Square  Albert  Bigelow  Paine 
A  Broadway  Pageant         ....  Walt  Whitman 


The  Tombs 

In  City  Hall  Park      . 

A  New  York  City  Character 

The  Bowery 

The  Great  Man  of  the  Quarter 

Chinatown 


81 

84 

85 
88 

89 
90 

95 
96 


.    George  A.  Sala 

Mary  Edith  Biihler 

The  New  York  Sun 

John  C.  Van  Dyke  100 

Norman  Duncan  102 

.    Rupert  Hughes  103 


III 


GREENWICH   AND  CHELSEA  VILLAGES 

Lispenard's  Meadow  .         .         .         John  Randel,  Jr.  107 

The  Plague  which  built  Greenwich,  1822        H.  C.  Bunner  108 

A  Song  of  Bedford  Street  .         .         .         .     H.  C.  Bunner  112 

The  Fourteenth  Street  Theater  Mabel  Osgood  Wright  113 

Greenwich  and  Chelsea      .         .         .     John  C.   Van  Dyke  115 
vi 


Table  of  Contents 


IV 


THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  NEIGHBORHOOD 

PAGE 

Grace  Church  Garden        •         .         .  Frances  A.  Schneider  I2I 

The  Brasserie  Pigault         .         .         .         .     H.  C.  Bunner  121 

The  Astor  Place  Opera  House  Riot  Contemporary  Pamphlet  126 

The  Beginning  of  the  End  of  Lafayette  Place  Edgar  Fawcett  129 

The  Bread  Line         .         .         .  Albert  Bigelow  Paine  130 

Washington  Square Henry  James  134 

Another  View  of  Washington  Square     Theodore  Winthrop  1 36 


THE  EAST  SIDE 


A  Spring  Walk 
An  East  Side  Wedding  Feast 
Cat  Alley  .... 
An  East  Side  Music  Hall  . 
Mulberry  Bend 


"  My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side" 


F.  Marion  Crawford  139 

.    James  L.  Ford  142 

Jacob  A.  Piis  145 

.     Stephen  Crane  149 

Jacob  A.  Pits  1 54 

Bernard  G.  Richards  1 56 


VI 


FROM   UNION  SQUARE  TO  MADISON  SQUARE 


On  the  "Rialto" 

The  Art  and  Nature  Club 

Mannahatta 

A  Philistine  in  Bohemia 

At  the  Old  Bull's  Head 


.  Harvey  J.  O'Higgins  163 

Mabel  Osgood  IVrighi  165 

.  Walt  IVhittnatt  169 

.     O.  Henry  170 

.  C.  C.  Buel  175 


Table  of  Contents 


PAGE 


The  Social  Map  .         .         .         .  F.  Marion  Crawford  177 

To  the  P'arragut  Statue  ....  Robert  Bridges  178 
Madison  Square  Garden  ....  Rupert  Hughes  179 
A  Song  of  City  Traffic  .  .  Charles  Hanson  Towne  181 
A  Bird's  Eye  View  from  the  Waldorf        .    G.  IV.  Steevens  183 


VII 

FROM   MADISON   SQUARE  THROUGH 
CENTRAL   PARK 

The  Architecture  of  New  York  .  William  Archer  189 

The  Tenderloin  ....      John  C.  Vatt  Dyke  192 

When  the  Owls  First  Blinked  Election  News 

The  New  York  Herald  193 
Three  Days  of  Terror,  1863  .  .  .  Ellen  Leonard  \<^i^ 
The  Little  Church  Round  the  Corner  .  A.  E.  Lancaster  200 
The  Path  of  In-the-Spring  ....  Zona  Gale  201 
Columbia  at  the  Outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  Charles  King  202 
New  York  Clubs Rupert  Hughes  205 


VIII 

UPPER   MANHATTAN   AND    HARLEM 

Riverside  Drive  and  Morningside  Heights    Rupert  Hughes  213 
The  Founding  of  Harlem  .         .         .      Carl  Horton  Pierce  214 
Manhattan         ......    Richard  Hovey  217 

Columbia  University  on  Morningside  Harry  Thurston  Peck  218 
General  George  Clinton  to  Dr.  Peter  Tappen  .  .  .  221 
The  Great  Game  at  the  Polo  Grounds  New  York  Sun  224 

The  Old  Jumel  Mansion    .         .         .     Charles  Burr  Todd  226 
The  Clermont  on  the  Hudson   .         .         .   Clifton  Johnson  227 
viii 


Table  of  Contents 
IX 

THE  BRONX   AND   BEYOND 

PAGE 

Where  the  People  of  New  York  Live  .  G.  W.  Steevens  231 
Spuyten  Duyvel  and  King's  Bridge  .  T.  Addison  Richards  234 
A  Day  at  Laguerre's  .         .         .    F.  Hopkiftson  Smith  2.t,<o 

The  New  York  Zoological  Park  William  T.  Hornaday  240 
The  Bowery  Boy  as  Nurse  in  Westchester  E.  W.  Tmvnsend  241 
Their  Wedding  Journey — 1834         .         .     H.  C.  Bunner  243 


OVER  THE   WATER 

The  Bridges  and  Blackwell's  Island   .     Johti  C.  Van  Dyke  247 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry   ....  IValt  Whitman  251 

Flushing    ......        Jesse  L.  Williams  254 

The  City  of  Homes Anonymous  255 

Coney  Island Rupert  Hughes  256 

Staten  Island T.  Addison  Richards  261 

Hoboken,  1831  .         .         .         .  Mrs.  T.  A.  Trollope  263 

Greenpoint Edgar  Fawcett  265 


IX 


INTRODUCTION 

NEW  YORK  is  a  frontier  city  situated  about  half- 
way between  San  Francisco  and  London.  It  has 
a  population  of  about  four  millions  and  a  half,  and  gains 
about  a  hundred  thousand  a  year.  A  very  large  propor- 
tion of  its  population  are  newcomers,  who  pour  in  both  by 
sea  and  by  land.  Most  of  those  who  come  on  the  land  side 
are  Americans  who  know  the  language,  customs  and  some 
of  the  laws  of  the  country.  Those  who  come  by  sea  — 
a  great  and  continuous  stream  —  know  as  a  rule  neither 
our  language,  laws  nor  habits,  and  it  is  one  of  the  steady 
occupations  and  duties  of  New  York  to  teach  them. 

New  York's  four  millions  include  a  select  but  respectable 
company  of  persons  who  were  born  in  New  York  of  native- 
American  parents,  a  squad,  probably  larger,  of  persons 
American  born  of  American-born  parents  who  came  to 
New  York  when  more  or  less  grown  up,  another  considerable 
group  of  the  American-born  descendants  of  foreign-born 
parents,  and  a  large  company  of  the  foreign  born. 

New  York  is  hardly  a  first-rate  place  to  be  born  in.  It 
is  too  crowded,  it  costs  too  much  to  be  born  there,  and  in 
spite  of  considerable  effort  and  expenditure,  the  city  has 
not  been  able  to  adjust  itself  more  than  imperfectly  to  the 
needs  of  infancy.  A  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand 
babies,  more  or  less,  take  the  chances  of  being  born  in  New 
York  every  year,  and  a  vast  deal  is  done  to  make  them 
welcome  and  encourage  them  to  keep  on.  And  a  wonderful 
xi 


Introduction 

proportion  of  them  do  keep  on.  Nevertheless,  New  York  is 
not  very  highly  recommended  as  a  birthplace.  It  is  very 
successful  and  attractive,  however,  as  a  place  for  persons 
to  come  to  who  have  been  born,  and  have  more  or  less  grown 
up,  somewhere  else.  And  if  they  have  been  educated  some- 
where else,  and  have  learned  to  do  something  pretty  well, 
so  much  the  better  for  their  chances  as  residents  of  New 
York. 

There  are  better  places  to  live  in  than  New  York,  and 
that  in  spite  of  its  excellent  climate  and  remarkable  health- 
fulness  considering  its  size.  But  there  is  hardly  any  better 
place  to  work  in,  provided  one  has  learned  to  work  to  good 
purpose,  and  can  learn  to  maintain  continuous  good  health 
under  the  nervous  strain  of  New  York  life.  To  do  that 
is  an  art  in  itself,  but  many  people  learn  it,  and  practise  it 
successfully  by  methods  that  vary  according  to  their  em- 
ployments and  incomes.  The  city  is  very  stimulating.  Its 
atmosphere  is  highly  charged  with  activity.  Solitude, 
which  has  considerable  healing  power  provided  one  does 
not  take  too  much  of  it,  is  hard  to  come  by  there.  Op- 
portunity abounds:  there  is  an  enormous  amount  to  be 
done  and  droves  of  people  doing  it.  All  of  that  makes 
for  a  quickened  pace  of  mind  and  limb,  and  is  tiring, 
especially  to  the  nerves.  Accordingly  almost  everybody 
who  works  in  New  York  gets  more  tired  in  the  course  of 
the  year  than  is  good  for  him,  and  needs  periods  of  rest 
and  change  of  air. 

Getting  them  —  getting  rest  and  change  —  is  one.  of 
the  steady  employments  of  the  city.  It  sends  shoals  of 
people  to  Florida,  California,  Atlantic  City,  Lakewood  and 
such  places  in  the  spring,  and  to  Europe  at  all  times,  but 
especially  in  the  summer;  it  fills  the  country  for  fifty  miles 
xii 


Introduction 

around  New  York  with  the  families  of  people  who  work 
in  that  city  and  go  home  at  night;  it  accomplishes  an 
extraordinary  summer  migration  of  rich  and  poor,  and  fills 
street  cars,  parks,  recreation-piers,  bathing  beaches,  steam- 
boats and  places  of  amusement  with  people  who  cannot  get 
away.  Most  of  New  York's  population  cannot  get  away, 
or  not  for  long  at  any  rate.  A  great  many  people,  especially 
children,  get  a  week  or  two  out  of  town  in  the  summer, 
but  there  is  no  time  when  the  city  will  not  be  found  to  be 
seething  with  human  creatures  and  humming  with  work, 
if  one  looks  for  them  in  the  right  places.  When  Fifth 
Avenue  grows  languid  late  in  August  and  the  shades  are 
down  or  the  shutters  up  in  whole  blocks  of  the  houses  of 
the  well-to-do,  building,  street  mending  and  many  kinds 
of  business  are  at  their  liveliest,  the  factories  are  humming 
down-town,  the  usual  crowd  surges  in  from  the  ferries  and 
the  tunnels  in  the  morning  and  out  again  at  night,  the 
trains  and  cars  run  almost  as  full  as  usual  on  surface, 
subway  and  elevated  roads,  and  down-town  and  up-town 
the  tenement  house  blocks  and  the  streets  they  stand  on 
seem  just  as  full  of  people  as  ever. 

It  is  a  great  credit  to  Manhattan  Island  that  so  many 
people  dwell  on  it,  and  so  much  too  continuously,  and  still 
live  and  reasonably  prosper.  The  truth  is  the  narrow 
island  was  well  contrived  to  be  the  home  of  man.  The 
breezes  sweep  across  it  from  river  to  river.  It  is  well 
drained  by  nature  and  now  well  watered  by  man's  art. 
And  its  climate,  as  has  been  said,  is  very  good.  When 
New  York  was  a  little  city  gathered  about  the  Battery  and 
the  Bowling  Green  and  Wall  and  Broad  streets,  and  lower 
Broadway,  it  must  have  been  a  truly  charming  place  to 
live  in.  There  are  no  sites  of  dwellings  now  that  are  as 
xiii 


Introduction 

desirable  as  those  on  the  borders  of  the  Battery  Park  where 
still  stand  a  few  of  the  fine  old  dwellings  that  housed  the 
more  opulent  citizens  of  the  time  when  General  Washing- 
ton was  President.  Everything  and  everybody  was  within 
walking  distance  then,  except  when  folks  took  horse  or 
wagon  or  boat  to  go  to  their  country  seats  farther  up  the 
island.  That  was  a  "little,  old  New  York"  that  was 
really  little,  and  really  old,  and  which  must  have  been 
really  delightful,  even  to  a  contemplative  mind. 

It's  littleness  is  past,  and  thanks  to  its  habit  of  tearing 
down  to  rebuild,  the  best  part  of  it  is  not  as  old  as  it  was 
a  century  ago;  but  it  is  still  delightful;  only  now  it  is 
wonderful  rather  than  charming,  a  marvelous  city  that 
people's  eyes  pop  out  over;  that  changes  and  develops  and 
shoots  up  and  stretches  out  so  fast  that  habitual  residents 
find  new  marvels  for  their  own  eyes  every  time  they  show 
the  town  to  a  visitor,  and  visitors  who  come  not  more  than 
twice  a  year  find  unfamiliar  new  features  at  every  visit. 
But  their  presence  and  their  reiterating  visits  attest  that 
the  changeful  city  is  delightful.  As  one  of  its  employments 
is  getting  rest  and  change,  so  another  of  them  is  giving 
those  desirables  to  folks  who  live  elsewhere.  And  that 
is  an  enormous  industry  in  New  York.  Two  hundred 
thousand  visitors  a  day  it  was  believed  to  have  the  last 
time  there  were  printed  figures  on  that  topic.  They  come 
most  in  the  fall  and  in  the  spring  and  least  no  doubt  in 
midsummer,  but  there  is  no  season  when  they  are  not 
present  in  force,  getting  tired  or  rested,  stimulated,  en- 
tertained, fed,  warmed  or  cooled  according  to  their  needs. 

New  York  is  the  metropolis  of  a  jealous  and  disparaging 
country  that  seldom  has  anything  very  good  to  say  of  it. 
Practically  the  country  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  it; 
xiv 


Introduction 

reads  about  it  continually  —  for  it  is  the  greatest  contribu- 
tor of  news  to  the  papers;  visits  it  when  it  can  and  enjoys 
the  visits;  is  amused  with  its  shows  and  interested  in  its 
hotels,  shops,  parks,  streets,  tall  buildings,  rivers,  bridges, 
slums,  tunnels  and  people.  It  pays  it  a  constant  tribute 
of  attention  and  spends  money  in  it  according  to  its  means, 
but  it  seldom  shows  pride  in  it,  or  speaks  any  better  of  it 
than  it  can  help.  Perhaps  when  Kansas  goes  to  Europe 
(as  it  does  abundantly)  it  brags  a  little  about  New  York 
as  an  American  product,  and  the  greatest-city-to-be  in 
all  the  world.  Perhaps,  in  Europe,  Kansas  declares  that 
Fifth  Avenue  is  a  street  to  make  the  old  world  wipe  its 
glasses,  and  that  the  rivers  of  New  York  surpass  all  rivers 
in  their  combination  of  natural  beauties  and  man-made 
wonders;  and  that  the  buildings  of  New  York  are  more 
marvelous,  at  least,  than  any  modern  buildings  in  Europe. 
But  at  home  Kansas  is  apt  to  see  in  New  York  a  greedy 
city,  wrapped  up  in  itself,  incredulous  of  Western  wisdom, 
inhospitable  to  "broad  American  ideas,"  perched  on  the 
shore  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean  and  careless  of  the  great  land 
behind  it  except  as  a  vast  productive  area  from  which  it 
draws  endless  wealth.  New  York  is  merely  one  of  the 
fruits  of  that  great  tree  whose  roots  go  down  in  the  Missis- 
sippi Valley,  and  whose  branches  spread  from  one  ocean  to 
the  other,  but  the  tree  has  no  great  degree  of  affection  for 
its  fruit.  It  inclines  to  think  that  the  big  apple  gets  a  dis- 
proportionate share  of  the  national  sap.  It  is  disturbed  by 
the  enormous  drawing  power  of  a  metropolis  which  con- 
stantly attracts  to  itself  wealth  and  its  possessors  from  all 
the  lesser  centers  of  the  land.  Every  city,  every  State  pays 
an  annual  tribute  of  men  and  of  business  to  New  York 
and  no  State  or  city  likes  particularly  to  do  it.     All  cities 

XV 


Introduction 

profit  in  these  times  by  the  strong  tendency  toward  in- 
dustrial centralization,  but  New  York  most  of  all.  It  is 
the  headquarters  of  the  great  businesses  of  the  country, 
of  the  banking  business,  the  railroad  business,  the  insurance 
business,  and  of  countless  huge  and  powerful  industrial 
corporations  whose  affairs  reach  out  into  the  farthest 
corners  of  the  land.  In  New  York  the  masters  of  these 
great  enterprises  must  live  a  good  part  of  the  year,  and  they 
build  great  houses  there,  and  set  up  country-places  where 
their  children  can  have  a  chance  to  grow  up,  and  of  course 
their  ties  with  their  home  States  or  the  cities  they  came 
from  become  more  and  more  loosened  as  the  years  go  on. 

No  wonder,  then,  the  country  inclines  to  be  jealous  of  a 
New  York  that  seems  to  be  all  the  time  drawing  from  it, 
and  never  giving  much.  But  so  all  great  cities  grow,  and 
could  not  be,  without  these  processes. 

New  York  is  different  from  all  the  other  American  cities 
in  the  quality  of  its  hospitalities,  and  in  that  there  is  a  basis 
for  the  lack  of  warmth  in  the  neighbors'  attitude  toward 
it.  In  one  way  it  is  the  most  hospitable  of  all  our  cities 
because  it  welcomes  and  entertains  and  provides  for  in- 
comparably more  visitors  than  any  other.  But  its  hos- 
pitalities are,  in  the  main,  the  concern  of  the  hotels,  the 
theaters,  the  restaurants  and  the  shops.  The  people  of 
the  city  are  perhaps  a  little  harder  to  get  at  in  their  homes 
than  the  people  of  the  lesser  cities.  A  vast  number  of 
people  who  do  not  live  in  New  York  have  friends,  ac- 
quaintances or  relatives  in  that  city.  When  Brown,  who 
lives  in  Buffalo,  comes  to  New  York,  his  case  is  somewhat 
different  from  that  of  Jones,  who  lives  in  New  York,  when 
Jones  goes  to  Buffalo.  Brown  and  Jones  being  old  friends, 
Jones  sees  Brown  in  Buffalo  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
xvi 


Introduction 

Brown  offers  him  the  hospitalities  of  that  city.  It  wouldn't 
be  Buflfalo  to  Jones  if  he  didn't  see  Brown.  But  it  is  not 
quite  so  much  a  matter  of  course  that  Brown  will  see  Jones 
when  he  comes  to  New  York.  For  one  thing,  Brown  comes 
to  New  York  ten  times  for  once  that  Jones  goes  to  Buffalo, 
so  that  Jones'  visit  to  Buffalo  is  much  more  of  an  event  both 
to  Jones  and  Brown  than  Brown's  visit  to  New  York  is 
to  either  of  them.  For  another  thing  it  is  about  five  times 
easier  for  Jones  to  catch  Brown  in  Buffalo  than  it  is  for 
Brown  to  catch  Jones  in  New  York.  Jones'  place  of 
business  in  New  York  is  five  miles  from  his  house,  and 
three  or  four  miles  from  the  hotels  and  shops  where  Brown 
may  be  putting  in  most  of  his  time.  If  Brown  is  really 
set  on  seeing  Jones  he  must  write  to  him  beforehand  or 
trust  to  catching  him  by  telephone  and  making  an  appoint- 
ment to  meet  him  somewhere,  or  lunch  with  him,  or  come 
to  dinner.  But  when  Brown  comes  to  New  York  he  comes 
usually  for  no  more  than  a  day  or  two,  and  has  lots  to  do, 
and  is  in  a  hurry.  He  won't  take  all  this  trouble  to  run 
Jones  down  just  for  a  casual  exchange  of  friendly  talk. 
He  doesn't  want  to  dine  with  Jones  and  his  family;  he 
wants  to  go  to  the  theater.  It  is  a  waste  of  time  for  Brown 
to  give  up  a  whole  evening  to  a  domestic  dinner  when  the 
theaters  are  so  attractive  and  time  so  limited.  So  Brown 
is  apt  to  go  his  own  gait  in  New  York  and  let  Jones  go 
uninterviewed,  unless  he  happens  to  run  across  him,  or 
wants  to  see  him  for  a  reason.  That  happens  so  often, 
and  to  so  many  people,  that  the  impression  gets  about  that 
people  who  go  to  live  in  New  York  are  pretty  much  lost 
to  the  world  outside  of  that  city,  and  that  the  less  that  is 
expected  of  them  in  the  way  of  personal  attentions,  the 
less  the  chance  of  disappointment. 
xvii 


Introduction 

That  is  not  quite  a  just  impression.  Not  the  people  who 
live  in  New  York  are  to  blame  for  it,  but  the  condition  of 
life  in  that  city,  both  for  residents  and  visitors.  In  New 
York  people  have  to  live  more  by  schedule  than  in  most 
smaller  places.  In  order  to  accomplish  what  they  have 
to  do  they  must  plan  out  the  disposition  of  their  time  more 
carefully  than  if  they  lived  where  distances  were  shorter, 
where  a  less  fraction  of  the  day  had  to  be  spent  in  going  and 
coming  and  where  the  residue  of  available  time  was  larger. 
Existence  in  New  York  is  not  very  conducive  to  friendship. 
That  is  a  sad  admission.  Propinquity  and  leisure  are 
favorable  to  friendship,  but  both  are  somewhat  to  seek  in 
New  York.  Of  course  friendship  can  thrive  in  spite  of 
obstacles,  and  does  there,  but  New  York  is  more  favorable 
to  the  acquisitions  of  a  wide,  agreeable  and  stimulating 
acquaintance,  than  to  intimacies.  The  necessary  con- 
servation of  energy  promptly  constrains  people  who  under- 
take to  live  and  work  in  New  York  to  stick  pretty  close  to 
a  daily  routine.  At  such  an  hour  in  the  morning  the 
working  citizen  emerges  from  his  front  door  or  the  elevator 
of  his  apartment-house;  so  far  he  walks,  maybe  (unless 
it  rains)  for  his  health's  good;  at  such  a  corner  he  takes 
the  subway,  the  elevated,  a  surface  car  or  a  cab;  at  such 
an  hour  he  goes  to  lunch;  at  such  an  hour  he  stops  work 
and  goes  home,  or  to  a  club,  or  to  walk,  or  drive  or  ride ;  or 
to  do  what  his  wife  has  arranged.  He  dines,  at  home  or 
elsewhere ;  he  stays  at  home  or  goes  out,  and  in  due  time, 
or  thereabouts,  he  goes  to  bed.  Some  such  beat  as  that 
he  travels  every  day,  seeing  the  people  who  happen  to  be 
on  that  beat  and  missing  the  others.  Habit  makes  it 
easy  for  him  to  travel  on  that  beat.  To  diverge  far  from 
it  takes  extra  thought  and  involves  extra  exertion,  so  he  is 
xviii 


Introduction 

chary  of  divergences.  Such  habits  of  life  and  the  dis- 
positions that  naturally  follow  from  them  are  doubtless 
responsible  for  the  reputation  for  self-engrossment  and 
inattention  to  the  rest  of  the  country  under  which  New 
York  seems  to  labor.  The  truth  is  that  the  people  of  that 
city  are  remarkably  like  other  people  (a  large  proportion 
of  them  being  "other  people"  by  birth  and  early  training), 
but  the  conditions  under  which  they  live  are  appreciably 
different  from  the  conditions  of  life  anywhere  else  in  the 
United  States.  If  they  are  less  stirred  than  they  should  be 
by  new  faces,  it  is  because  a  whole  panorama  of  new  faces 
unrolls  to  them  every  day.  They  are  driven  in  upon  them- 
selves by  the  incessant  impact  of  people.  They  go  their 
own  gait  because  the  very  pressure  of  the  crowd  constrains 
them  to  it.  Even  grown-up  members  of  the  same  family 
are  apt  to  be  a  little  more  separate  in  New  York  than  they 
would  be  elsewhere,  unless  they  all  live  at  home  or  very 
near  one  another.  That  does  not  mean  lapse  of  affection, 
but  only  that  life  is  pressing.  In  placid  back  waters  boats 
may  drift  along  together,  but  when  there  is  a  rapid  current 
to  stem  each  must  be  concerned  to  make  headway  on  its 
course. 

As  for  the  physical,  the  historical  and  the  ethnological 
New  York,  there  is  great  individuality  about  each  of  them. 
Physically  the  town  seems  remarkably  constituted  to  stim- 
ulate the  mind,  the  imagination  and  hands  of  man  to 
exceptional  exertions.  The  situation  of  Manhattan  Island 
between  the  rivers  has  compelled  extraordinary  feats  of 
bridge-building  and  tunnel-boring,  and  the  narrowness 
of  the  island  and  the  driving  propensity  of  business  to  run 
northerly  up  the  middle  of  it,  has  made  certain  strips  of 
land  excessively  valuable,  and  spurred  invention  to  cover 
xLx 


Introduction 

them  with  buildings  of  a  height  and  earning  power  pro- 
portionate to  the  value  of  their  sites.  The  physical  New 
York  is  not  what  it  is  because  anybody  thought  that  was 
an  ideal  way  to  build  a  city,  but  because  there  were  only 
two  directions  which  certain  lines  of  business  were  willing 
to  take,  one  being  toward  the  Harlem  River,  the  other 
toward  the  sky. 

The  peculiar  physical  development  of  the  city  has  been 
hard  on  its  historical  and  sentimental  side  because  the 
line  of  the  best  new  building  has  run  up  Broadway  and 
Fifth  Avenue  directly  on  top  of  the  best  building  of  the 
preceding  generation.  That  has  meant  an  amount  of 
premature  demolition  unusual  even  in  the  history  of  great 
cities.  The  pulling  down  of  dilapidated  buildings  to  make 
way  for  better  ones  is  a  familiar  process  of  growth,  but  New 
York  has  seen  the  palaces  of  one  generation  leveled  to 
make  space  for  the  shops,  hotels  and  apartment  houses 
of  the  next.  Very  often,  indeed,  there  has  not  been  a  genera- 
tion's lapse,  or  nearly  so  long,  between  the  rise  of  successive 
structures  on  the  same  site.  That  is  why  one  must  go  off 
the  beaten  track  to  find  buildings  in  New  York  that  have 
associations  with  an  earlier  day.  Faunce's  Tavern,  Trinity 
and  St.  Paul's  churches,  the  City  Hall,  and  a  few  other 
buildings  have  been  saved  by  the  influence  of  pious 
memories,  but  almost  all  Broadway  is  fairly  new,  and 
on  Fifth  Avenue  above  Fourteenth  Street  there  is  hardly  a 
building  left  as  it  was  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  many  of 
them  have  not  yet  reached  the  maturity  of  a  single  decade. 
The  New  York  that  is  most  on  exhibition  is  almost  as  new 
as  Seattle.  On  lower  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  streets  that 
run  out  of  it  below  Fourteenth  Street  there  are  good  old 
houses  left  to  uses  hardly  less  dignified  than  those  for  which 


Introduction 

they  were  first  built.  Fashion  has  left  that  quarter  behind, 
but  a  high  degree  of  respectability  has  moved  into  its 
vacant  tenements.  Washington  Square  is  still  much  like 
its  old  self,  though  the  University  Building  —  the  most  senti- 
mentally flavored  New  York  edifice  of  its  day  —  is  gone. 
Gramercy  Park  still  keeps  much  of  its  old  quality,  and 
so,  but  in  a  much  less  degree,  does  the  more  remote  Stuy- 
vesant  Square.  But  the  Fifth  Avenue  blocks  of  the  'teens 
and  the  Twenties  and  Thirties  are  already  utterly  changed, 
or  changing  very  fast,  and  the  Forties  are  wavering  and 
the  Fifties  are  challenged.  There  is  a  residential  fortress 
on  Madison  Avenue,  at  Thirty-eighth  Street,  and  that 
avenue  generally  has  suffered  less  intrusion,  and  Park 
Avenue  between  Thirty-fourth  and  Fortieth  streets  holds 
out  handsomely  against  commerce,  and  there  are  strong- 
holds on  Fifth  Avenue  as  far  down  as  the  top  Forties  that 
still  defy  it,  but  when  Trade  fixes  its  eye  on  any  site  or 
any  locality,  it  seems  only  a  matter  of  time  when  it  shall 
get  what  it  wants.  Opposition  dies  and  goes  to  Woodlawn, 
but  Trade  lives  on  and  accumulates  appetite. 

But  these  observations  of  locality  seem  rather  beside  the 
mark.  The  important  thing  about  New  York  is  not  how 
much  is  old  or  new,  nor  where  the  people  who  may  choose, 
choose  now  to  live.  The  important  thing  is  what  the  city 
does  to  men.  Perhaps  its  best  exhibit  is  its  schools.  They 
are  very  many,  very  big  and  handsome,  and  a  vast  deal 
of  teaching  is  done  in  them.  Ethnologically,  as  every  one 
knows.  New  York  is  a  museum.  An  important  fraction 
of  the  annual  immigration  that  lands  at  Ellis  Island  clings 
to  New  York  and  gets  no  farther.  Therein  lies  her  title 
to  be  called  a  frontier  city,  and  she  lives  earnestly  up  to  the 
responsibilities  of  it  by  giving  her  newcomers  their  first 
zxi 


Introduction 

lessons  in  American  deportment  and  putting  their  children 
to  school. 

As  to  its  more  general  effect,  to  people  who  profit  by 
living  there  New  York  seems  to  give  valuable  qualities 
of  confidence.  To  get  hold  in  New  York,  and  win  a  rec- 
ognized place  there,  is  an  exploit  of  considerable  value 
and  is  recognized  to  be  so.  Whether  it  is  reasonable  or 
not,  and  in  many  particulars  it  is  not,  there  is  a  prestige 
about  a  great  metropolis  which  is  communicated  to  the 
people  who  live  in  it.  To  ride  a  tall  horse  does  not  make 
a  man  great,  but  it  may  make  him  look  great  and  even 
feel  great.  New  York  is  a  very  tall  horse,  and  many  who 
ride  her  look  bigger  and  feel  bigger  for  that  exploit. 

Moreover  the  really  big  people  in  New  York  are  pretty 
big;  much  bigger,  oftentimes,  than  an  incredulous  country 
understands.  Competition  is  the  life  of  certain  kinds  of 
brains,  as  it  is  of  trade,  and  the  competitions  of  New  York 
yield  many  trained  men  of  power  and  rare  efficiency. 
Diamonds  are  polished  with  diamond  powder,  and  men 
with  men.  There  are  plenty  of  men  in  New  York  for  all 
the  processes  of  polishing,  and  when  the  work  has  been 
finished  in  a  good  specimen  the  result  is  very  brilliant,  and 
the  product,  undeniably,  is  fit  for  uses  of  profound  im- 
portance. 

Edward  S.  Martin 


Why  do  I  love  New  York,  my  dear? 

I  know  not.     Were  my  father  here  — 
And  his  —  and  HIS  —  the  three  and  I 
Might,  perhaps,  make  you  some  reply. 

H.  C.  BUNNER 
Copyright,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1892. 


THE   WAYFARER   IN 
NEW   YORK 

In  the  year  of  Christ  1609  was  the  country  of  which  we  now 
propose  to  speak  first  founded  and  discovered  at  the  expense 
of  the  General  East  India  Company  (though  directing  their 
aims  and  desires  elsewhere)  by  the  ship  HALF  MOON 
whereof  Henry  Hudson  was  master  and  factor.  —  Remonstrance 
of  New  Netherland. 

THEN  the  Sunne  arose,  and  we  steered  away  north 
againe,  and  saw  the  land  from  the  West  by  North, 
to  the  Northwest  by  North,  all  like  broken  Hands,  and 
our  soundings  were  eleven  and  ten  fathoms.  Then  wee 
looft  in  for  the  shoare,  and  faire  by  the  shoare,  we  had 
seven  fathoms.  The  course  along  the  land  we  found  to  be 
North-east  by  North.  From  the  land  which  we  had  first 
sight  of,  until  we  came  to  a  great  lake  of  water,  as  wee 
could  judge  it  to  bee,  being  drowned  land,  which  made  it 
to  rise  like  Hands,  which  was  in  length  ten  leagues.  The 
mouth  of  that  lake  hath  many  shoalds,  and  the  sea  break- 
eth  on  them  as  it  is  cast  out  of  the  mouth  of  it.  And 
from  that  Lake  or  Bay,  the  land  lyeth  North  by  East,  and 
wee  had  a  great  streame  out  of  the  Bay;  and  from  thence 
our  sounding  was  ten  fathoms,  two  leagues  from  the  land. 
At  five  of  the  clocke  we  anchored,  being  little  winde,  and 
rode  in  eight  fathoms  water,  the  night  was  faire.  This 
night  I  found  the  land  to  hall  the  Compasse  8.  degrees. 
For  to  the  Northward  off  us  we  saw  high  Hils.  For  the 
day  before  we  found  not  above  2.  degrees  of  Variation. 
This  is  a  very  good  Land  to  fall  with,  and  the  pleasant 
Land  to  see.  .  .  . 

The  eleventh,  was  faire  and  very  hot  weather.     At  one 
of  the  clocke  in  the  after-noone,  wee  weighed  and  went  into 

B  I 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

the  River,  the  wind  at  South  South-west,  little  winde. 
Our  soundings  were  seven,  sixe,  five,  sixe,  seven,  eight, 
nine,  ten,  twelve,  thirteene,  and  fourteene  fathomes.  Then 
it  shoalded  againe,  and  came  to  five  fathomes.  Then  wee 
Anchored,  and  saw  that  it  was  a  very  good  Harbour  for  all 
windes,  and  rode  all  night.  The  people  of  the  Countrey 
came  aboord  of  us,  making  shew  of  love,  and  gave  us 
Tobacco  and  Indian  Wheat,  and  departed  for  that  night; 
but  we  durst  not  trust  them. 

The  twelfth,  very  faire  and  hot.  In  the  after-noone  at 
two  of  the  clocke  wee  weighed,  the  winde  being  variable, 
between  the  North  and  the  North-west.  So  we  turned 
into  the  River  two  leagues  and  Anchored.  This  morning 
at  our  first  rode  in  the  River,  there  came  eight  and  twentie 
Canoes  full  of  men,  women  and  children  to  betray  us: 
but  we  saw  their  intent,  and  suffered  none  of  them  to 
come  aboord  of  us.  At  twelve  of  the  clocke  they  departed. 
They  brought  with  them  Oysters  and  Beanes,  whereoff 
wee  bought  some.  They  have  great  Tobacco  pipes  of 
yellow  Copper,  and  Pots  of  Earth  to  dresse  their  meate  in. 
It  floweth  South-east  by  South  within. 

The  Thirteenth,  faire  weather,  the  wind  Northerly. 

At  seven  of   the  clocke  in  the  morning,  as   the 

floud  came  we  weighed,  and  turned  foure  miles 

into  the    River.     The   tide   being   done  wee 

anchored.     Then  there  came  foure  Canoes 

aboord:  but  we  suffered  none  of  them  to 

come   into   our  ship.     They   brought 

great   store   of   very   good    Oysters 

aboord,    which    we     bought    for 

trifles.        From     the     Log     of 

Robert  Juet,  as  printed  in 

Purchas     His     Pilgrimes. 

2 


I 

FROM   THE   BATTERY  TO   TRINITY 


Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun, 

Keep  your  woods,  O  Nature,  and  the  quiet  places  by  the  woods. 

Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your  corn-fields 
and  orchards, 

Keep   the    blossoming    buckwheat    fields    where   the   Ninth- 
month  bees  hum; 

Give  me  faces  and  streets  —  give  me  these  phantoms  inces- 
sant and  endless  along  the  trottoirs ! 

Give    me    interminable    eyes  —  give    me    women  —  give    me 
comrades  and  lovers  by  the  thousand ! 

Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day  —  let  me  hold  new  ones  by  the 
hand  every  day ! 

Give  me  such  shows  —  give  me  the  streets  of  Manhattan ! 

Walt  Whitman 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

The  Price  of  Manhattan     ^i^         <::>         ^^         <:> 

THE  oldest  known  manuscript  that  relates  to  the  local 
history  of  Manhattan,  and  the  oldest  manifest  of  a 
trading  vessel  cleared  from  its  port,  reads  thus :  — 

High  and  Mighty  Lords, 

Here  arrived  yesterday  the  ship  Arms  of  Amsterdam 
which  on  the  23rd  September  sailed  from  New  Netherland 
out  of  the  Mauritius  River.  They  report  that  our  people 
there  are  of  good  cheer  and  live  peaceably.  Their  wives 
have  also  borne  children  there.  They  have  bought  the 
island  Manhattes  from  the  savages  for  the  value  of  sixty 
guilders.  It  is  11,000  morgens  in  extent.  They  had 
all  their  grain  sown  by  the  middle  of  May  and  harvested 
by  the  middle  of  August.  They  send  small  samples  of 
summer  grain,  such  as  wheat,  rye,  barley,  oats,  buckwheat, 
canary  seed,  beans  and  flax. 

The  cargo  of  the  aforesaid  ship  is: 
7246  beaver  skins,  36  wildcat  skins, 

178  half  otter  skins,  ^^  minks, 

675  otter  skins,  34  rat  skins, 

48  mink  skins,  Much  oak  timber  and  nutwood. 

Herewith 

High  and  Mighty  Lords,  be  commended  to  the  grace  of 
Almighty  God. 

At  Amsterdam,  the  5th  of  November,  A°  1626. 
Your  High  Mightinesses'  Obedient 

P.   SCHAGHEN 

Written  from  Amsterdam  to  the  States  General  at  the 
Hague. 
Quoted  by  Mrs.  Schuyler  van  Rensselaer  in  her 

History    of    New    York    City    in    the    Seventeenth 

Century 

5 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

The  First  Account  of  New  York  Printed  in  the  Eng- 
lish Language  ^o        ^vi^         -'^^        ^i^ 

"XTEW  YORK  is  settled  upon  the  west  end  of  the  island 
•^  ^  having  that  small  arm  of  the  sea  which  divides  it 
from  Long  Island  on  the  south  side  of  it,  which  runs  away 
eastward  to  New  England,  and  is  navigable  though  dan- 
gerous. For  about  ten  miles  from  New  York  is  a  place 
called  Hell  Gate,  which  being  a  narrow  passage,  there  run- 
neth a  violent  stream  both  upon  flood  and  ebb,  and  in  the 
middle  lieth  some  Islands  of  Rocks,  which  the  current 
sets  so  violently  upon  that  it  threatens  present  shipwreck; 
and  upon  the  flood  is  a  large  Whirlpool,  which  continually 
sends  forth  a  hideous  roaring,  enough  to  affright  any 
stranger  from  passing  any  further,  and  to  wait  for  some 
Charon  to  conduct  him  through ;  yet  to  those  that  are  well 
acquainted  little  or  no  danger;  yet  a  place  of  great  defence 
against  any  enemy  coming  in  that  way,  which  a  small 
Fortification  would  absolutely  prevent  and  necessitate 
them  to  come  in  at  the  west  end  of  Long  Island,  by  Sandy 
Hook,  where  Nutten  Island  doth  force  them  within  com- 
mand of  the  Fort  at  New  York,  which  is  one  of  the  best 
Pieces  of  Defence  in  the  north  parts  of  America. 

New  York  is  built  most  of  brick  and  stone,  and  covered 
with  red  and  black  tile,  and  the  land  being  high,  it  gives 
at  a  distance  a  pleasing  Aspect  to  the  Spectators.  The 
inhabitants  consist  most  of  English  and  Dutch,  and  have 
a  considerable  trade  with  the  Indians,  for  beavers,  otter, 
racoon  skins,  with  other  firs ;  as  also  for  bear,  deer,  and  elk 
skins;  and  are  supplied  with  venison  and  fowl  in  the  winter 
and  fish  in  the  summer  by  the  Indians,  which  they  buy 
at  an  easy  rate;  and  having  the  country  round  about  them, 
they  are  continually  furnished  with  such  provisions  as  is 
6 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

needfull  for  the  life  of  man,  not  only  by  the  English  and 
Dutch  within  their  own,  but  likewise  by  the  adjacent 
Colonies.  Daniel  Denton,  1670 

Boy  wanted,  1658  <:>         <::>         ^q>         ^;i„         ^siy 

HONORABLE,  WORSHIPFUL,  WISE,  PRUDENT 
GENTLEMEN:  In  regard  to  the  salt,  which  your 
Honors  suppose  is  quite  plenty  at  the  Manhattans,  you  are 
mistaken.  We  have  only  a  hogshead  and  a  half,  and  can 
hardly  get  any  there  for  money.  Hardly  a  cup  of  salt  can 
be  had  for  extraordinary  occasions;  this  causes  great  dis- 
content and  uproar.  In  well  regulated  places  it  happens 
that  scarcity  and  want  occur.  Much  more  is  this  the  case 
in  a  colony  far  distant  and  newly  begun.  Such  a  colony 
ought  to  be  provided  for  one  year  with  whatever  is  not 
produced  there  or  procured  easily  from  others. 

Little  or  no  butter  is  to  be  had  here,  and  less  cheese. 
Whenever  any  one  is  about  to  go  on  a  journey  he  can  get 
hardly  anything  more  than  dry  bread,  or  he  must  carry 
along  a  pot  or  kettles  to  cook  some  food.  Therefore,  as 
a  reminder,  I  say  once  more  that  it  would  be  well  if  some 
rye  meal,  cheese,  and  such  things  were  sent  in  all  the  ships. 
As  horses  are  required  here  for  agriculture,  means  should 
be  found  of  sending  a  good  supply  of  horses. 

In  regard  to  the  fort,  it  is  in  a  great  state  of  decay.  I 
have  resolved  on  building  a  house  of  planks  about  fifty 
feet  in  length  and  twenty  in  breadth;  also  I  have  had  one- 
third  of  the  house,  in  which  I  have  been  lodging  very  un- 
comfortably, repaired,  yet  the  greater  part  of  it  is  still  so 
leaky  that  it  is  only  with  great  difficulty  that  anything  can 
be  kept  dry.  We  shall  be  obliged  to  pull  down  and  re- 
build the  soldiers'  barracks  immediately. 
7 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

I  had  expected,  at  least,  a  supply  of  provisions  in  the 
ship  which  had  just  arrived.  There  is  a  set  of  insolent 
fellows  on  board  of  her  who  will  not  turn  a  hand  to  work 
if  there  be  anything  to  do,  and  there  never  is  any  one  to 
be  hired  for  such  work.  Laborers  will  not  stir  for  less 
than  a  dollar  a  day.  Carpenters,  masons  and  other 
mechanics  earn  four  guilders;  this  amounts  to  much  in 
extensive  works. 

There  is  no  reason  or  plea  for  refusing  to  supply  the 
settlers,  who  have  been  here  some  time  from  our  common 
store,  in  exchange  for  their  money.  There  is  no  mer- 
chant's store  here,  and  scarcely  any  one  who  has  provisions 
for  sale,  for  the  daily  supply  of  the  inhabitants;  nay,  not 
even  bread,  although  there  are  over  six  hundred  souls  in 
this  place.  Whoever  has  anything  will  not  sell  it,  and  who 
so  has  none,  cannot.  Things  are  here  in  their  infancy, 
and  demand  time.  Many  who  come  hither  are  as  poor 
as  worms  and  lazy  withal,  and  will  not  work  unless  com- 
pelled by  necessity. 

Send  in  the  spring,  or  in  the  ships  sailing  in  December, 
a  large  number  of  strong  and  hard  working  men.  Should 
they  not  be  forth  coming  at  the  right  time,  their  places 
can  be  filled  with  boys  of  fifteen,  sixteen,  seventeen  years 
and  over.  Bear  in  mind  that  the  boys  be  healthy  and 
strong.     Whatever  is  done  here  must  be  done  by  labor. 

The  children  sent  over  from  the  almshouse  have  arrived 
safely,  and  were  in  such  demand  that  all  are  bound  out 
among  the  inhabitants;  the  oldest  for  two  years,  most  of 
the  others  for  three  years,  and  the  youngest  for  four  years. 
They  are  to  earn  forty,  sixty,  and  eighty  guilders  during 
the  period,  and  at  the  end  of  the  term,  will  be  fitted  out  in 
the  same  manner  as  they  are  at  present.  Please  to  con- 
8 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

tinue  sending  others  from  time  to  time;  but,  if  possible, 
none  ought  to  come  under  fifteen  years  of  age.  They 
ought  to  be  somewhat  strong,  as  Httle  profit  is  to  be  ex- 
pected here  without  labor. 

'Tis  as  yet  somewhat  too  soon  to  send  many  women  or 
a  multitude  of  little  children ;  it  will  be  more  advisable  and 
safer  when  crops  are  gathered,  when  abundance  prevails, 
and  everything  is  cheaper. 

I  might  enlarge  upon  this  account,  but  time  does  not 
permit,  as  the  sloop  by  which  I  send  it,  is  ready  to  sail. 

From  a  letter  by  J.  Alrichs  (1658)  to  the  Dutch  Com- 
pany 

A  Schoolmaster's  Duties,  1661         ^^        -=^        ^^^^ 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  DIRECTOR- 
GENERAL  AND  COUNCIL  OF  NEW  NETH- 
ERLAND :  —  The  Schout  and  Schepens  of  the  Court  of 
Breuckelen  respectfully  represent  that  they  found  it  neces- 
sary that  a  Court  Messenger  was  required  for  the  Schepens' 
Chamber,  to  be  occasionally  employed  in  the  Village  of 
Breuckelen  and  all  around  where  he  may  be  needed,  as 
well  to  serve  summons,  as  also  to  conduct  the  service  of 
the  Church,  and  to  sing  on  Sundays;  to  take  charge  of 
the  School,  dig  graves,  etc.,  ring  the  Bell,  and  perform 
whatever  else  may  be  required :  Therefore,  the  Petitioners, 
with  your  Honors'  approbation,  have  thought  proper  to 
accept  for  so  highly  necessary  an  office  a  suitable  person 
who  is  now  come  before  them,  one  Carel  van  Beauvois,  to 
whom  they  have  hereby  appropriated  a  sum  of  fl.  150,  besides 
a  free  dwelling;  and  whereas  the  Petitioners  are  appre- 
hensive that  the  aforesaid  C.  v.  Beauvois  would  not  and 
9 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

cannot  do  the  work  for  the  sum  aforesaid,  and  the  Peti- 
tioners are  not  able  to  promise  him  any  more,  therefore 
the    Petitioners,  with   all   humble  and  proper  reverence, 
request  your  Honors  to  be  pleased  to  lend  them  a  help- 
ing hand,  in  order  thus  to  receive  the  needful  assistance. 
Herewith,    awaiting    your    Honors'    kind    and    favorable 
answer,    and    commending    ourselves.    Honorable,    wise, 
prudent,  and  most  discreet  Gentlemen,  to  your  favor,  we 
pray  for  your  Honors  God's  protection,  together  with  a 
happy    and    prosperous    administration    unto    Salvation. 
Your  Honors'   servants  and  subjects. 
The  Schout  and  Schepens  of  the  Village  aforesaid. 
By  order  of  the  same,  .  .  . 
Adriaen  Hegeman,  Secy,  (translated  by  H.  R.  Stiles) 

Why  the  Dutch  Surrendered  <:>        •'^i^        <^ 

npHE  Company  now  believing  that  it  has  fulfilled  your 
-*■  Honorable  Mightinesses'  intention,  will  only  again 
say,  in  conclusion,  that  the  sole  cause  and  reason  for  the 
loss  of  the  aforesaid  place,  were  these:  The  Authorities 
(Regenten),  and  the  chief  officer,  being  very  deeply  in- 
terested in  lands,  bouweries  and  buildings,  were  unwilling  to 
oflfer  any  opposition,  first,  at  the  time  of  the  English  encroach- 
ments, in  order  thereby  not  to  afiford  any  pretext  for  firing 
and  destroying  their  properties;  and,  having  always  paid 
more  attention  to  their  particular  affairs  than  to  the  Com- 
pany's interests.  New  Amsterdam  was  found,  on  the 
arrival  of  the  English  frigates,  as  if  an  enemy  was  never 
to  be  expected.  And,  finally,  that  the  Director,  first 
following  the  example  of  heedless  interested  parties,  gave 
himself  no  other  concern  than  about  the  prosperity  of  his 

10 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

bouweries,  and,  when  the  pinch  came,  allowed  himself 
to  be  rode  over  by  Clergymen,  women  and  cowards,  in 
order  to  surrender  to  the  English  what  he  could  defend 
with  reputation,  for  the  sake  of  thus  saving  their  private 
properties.  And  the  Company  will  further  leave  to  your 
Honorable  Mightinesses'  good  and  prudent  wisdom,  what 
more  ought  to  be  done  in  this  case.  .  .  . 

Note.  —  Reply  of  the  West  India  Company  to  the  An- 
swer of  the  Honorable  Peter  Stuyvesant  (1666),  in  Docu- 
ments Relative  to  the  Colonial  History  of  the  State  of  New- 
York  (edited  by  E.  B.  O'Callaghan,  Albany,  1858),  II, 
491-503  passim. 

New  York  in  1679    '^^        ^^>        'viy        <>y        ^i^y 

TJAVING  then  fortunately  arrived  by  the  blessing  of 
-■■  ■*■  the  Lord,  before  the  city  of  New  York,  on  Saturday, 
the  23d  day  of  September,  we  stepped  ashore  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in  company  with  Gerrit,  our 
fellow  passenger,  who  would  conduct  us  in  this  strange 
place.  .  .  .  He  first  took  us  to  the  house  of  one  of  his 
friends,  who  welcomed  him  and  us,  and  offered  us  some 
of  the  fruit  of  the  country,  very  fine  peaches  and  full  grown 
apples,  which  filled  our  hearts  with  thankfulness  to  God. 
This  fruit  was  exceedingly  fair  and  good,  and  pleasant 
to  the  taste;  much  better  than  that  in  Holland  or  else- 
where, though  I  believe  our  long  fasting  and  craving  of 
food  made  it  so  agreeable.  .  .  . 

24th,  Sunday.  We  rested  well  through  the  night.  I 
was  surprised  on  waking  up  to  find  my  comrade  had  already 
dressed  himself  and  breakfasted  upon  peaches.  We 
walked  out  awhile  in  the  fine,  pure  morning  air,  along  the 
margin  of  the  clear  running  water  of  the  sea,  which  is 
II 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

driven  up  this  river  at  every  tide.  As  it  was  Sunday,  in 
order  to  avoid  scandal  and  for  other  reasons,  we  did  not 
wish  to  absent  ourselves  from  church.  We  therefore  went, 
and  found  there  truly  a  wild  worldly  world.  I  say  wild, 
not  only  because  the  people  are  wild,  as  they  call  it  in 
Europe,  but  because  most  all  the  people  who  go  there  to 
live,  or  who  are  born  there,  partake  somewhat  of  the  nature 
of  the  country,  that  is,  peculiar  to  the  land  where  they  live. 
We  heard  a  minister  preach,  who  had  come  from  the  up- 
river  country,  from  Fort  Orange,  where  his  residence  is, 
an  old  man,  named  Domine  Schaats,  of  Amsterdam.  .  .  . 

This  Schaats,  then,  preached.  He  had  a  defect  in  the 
left  eye,  and  used  such  strange  gestures  and  language  that 
I  think  I  never  in  all  my  life  have  heard  any  thing  more 
miserable;  indeed,  I  can  compare  him  with  no  one  better 
than  with  one  Do.  Van  Ecke,  lately  the  minister  at  Armuy- 
den,  in  Zeeland,  more  in  life,  conversation  and  gestures 
than  in  person.  As  it  is  not  strange  in  these  countries  to 
have  men  as  ministers  who  drink,  we  could  imagine  nothing 
else  than  that  he  had  been  drinking  a  little  this  morning. 
His  text  was.  Come  unto  me  all  ye  etc.,  but  he  was  so  rough 
that  even  the  roughest  and  most  godless  of  our  sailors  were 
astonished. 

The  church  being  in  the  fort,  we  had  an  opportunity  to 
look  through  the  latter,  as  we  had  come  too  early  for  preach- 
ing. It  is  not  large;  it  has  four  points  or  batteries ;  it  has 
no  moat  outside,  but  is  enclosed  with  a  double  row  of  pali- 
sades. It  is  built  from  the  foundation  with  quarry  stone. 
The  parapet  is  of  earth.  It  is  well  provided  with  cannon, 
for  the  most  part  of  iron,  though  there  were  some  small 
brass  pieces,  all  bearing  the  mark  of  arms  of  the  Nether- 
landers.     The  garrison  is  small.     There  is  a  well  of  fine 

12 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

water  dug  in  the  fort  by  the  English,  contrary  to  the  opinion 
of  the  Dutch,  who  supposed  the  fort  was  built  upon  rock, 
and  had  therefore  never  attempted  any  such  thing.  .  .  . 
It  has  only  one  gate,  and  that  is  on  the  land  side,  open- 
ing upon  a  broad  plain  or  street,  called  the  Broadway  or 
Beaverway.  Over  this  gate  are  the  arms  of  the  Duke  of 
York.  During  the  time  of  the  Dutch  there  were  two  gates, 
namely  another  on  the  water  side;  but  the  English  have 
closed  it,  and  made  a  battery  there,  with  a  false  gate.  In 
front  of  the  church  is  inscribed  the  name  of  Governor 
Kyft,  who  caused  the  same  to  be  built  in  the  year  of  1642. 
It  has  a  shingled  roof,  and  upon  the  gable  towards  the  water 
there  is  a  small  wooden  tower,  with  a  bell  in  it,  but  no 
clock.  There  is  a  sun-dial  on  three  sides.  The  front  of 
the  fort  stretches  east  and  west,  and  consequently  the  sides 
run  north  and  south.  .  .  . 

27th,  Wednesday.  Nothing  occurred  to-day  excepyt 
that  I  went  to  assist  Gerrit  in  bringing  his  goods  home, 
and  declaring  them,  which  we  did.  We  heard  that  one 
of  the  wicked  and  godless  sailors  had  broken  his  leg;  and 
in  this  we  saw  and  acknowledged  the  Lord  and  his  righteous- 
ness. .  .  . 

As  soon  as  we  had  dined  we  sent  off  our  letters ;  and  this 
being  all  accomplished,  we  started  at  two  o'clock  for  Long 
Island.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  We  went  on,  up  the  hill,  along  open  roads  and  a 
little  woods,  through  the  first  village,  called  Breukelen, 
which  has  a  small  and  ugly  little  church  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  Having  passed  through  here,  we  struck 
off  to  the  right,  in  order  to  go  to  Gouanes.  We  went  upon 
several  plantations  where  Gerrit  was  acquainted  vdth  most 
all  of  the  people,  who  made  us  very  welcome,  sharing  with 
13 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

us  bountifully  whatever  they  had,  whether  it  was  milk, 
cider,  fruit  or  tobacco,  and  especially,  and  first  and  most 
of  all,  miserable  rum  or  brandy  which  had  been  brought 
from  Barbadoes  and  other  islands,  and  which  is  called  by 
the  Dutch  kill-devil.  All  these  people  are  very  fond  of  it, 
and  most  of  them  extravagantly  so,  although  it  is  very  dear 
and  has  a  bad  taste.  .  .  . 


We  went  from  the  city,  following  the  Broadway,  over 
the  valey,  or  the  fresh  water.  Upon  both  sides  of  this 
way  were  many  habitations  of  negroes,  mulattoes  and 
whites.  These  negroes  were  formerly  the  proper  slaves 
of  the  (West  India)  company,  but,  in  consequence  of  the 
frequent  changes  and  conquests  of  the  country,  they  have 
obtained  their  freedom  and  settled  themselves  down  where 
they  have  thought  proper,  and  thus  on  this  road,  where 
they  have  ground  enough  to  live  on  with  their  families. 
We  left  the  village,  called  the  Bouwerij,  lying  on  the  right 
hand,  and  went  through  the  woods  to  New  Harlem, 
a  tolerably  large  village  situated  on  the  south  side  of  the 
island,  directly  opposite  the  place  where  the  northeast  creek 
and  the  East  river  come  together,  situated  about  three 
hours  journey  from  New  Amsterdam. 

By  Jaspar  Bankers  and  Peter  Sluyter  (trans- 
lated by  H.  C.  Murphy) 

When  New  York  was  Like  a  Garden,  1748  "^ii' 

'  I  ""HE  streets  do  not  run  so  straight  as  those  of  Phila- 

-*-     delphia,    and    have   sometimes   considerable    bend- 

ings:    however   they   are   very  spacious   and  well    built, 

and    most   of   them   are   paved,    except   in   high  places, 

14 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

where  it  has  been  found  useless.  In  the  chief  streets  there 
are  trees  planted,  which  in  summer  give  them  a  fine  ap- 
pearance, and  during  the  excessive  heat  at  that  time,  afford 
a  cooling  shade :  I  found  it  extremely  pleasant  to  walk  in 
the  town,  for  it  seemed  quite  like  a  garden. 

Most  of  the  houses  are  built  of  bricks;  and  are  generally 
strong  and  neat,  and  several  stories  high.  Some  had, 
according  to  old  architecture,  turned  the  gable-end  towards 
the  streets;  but  the  houses  were  altered  in  this  respect. 
Many  of  the  houses  had  a  balcony  on  the  roof,  on  which 
the  people  used  to  sit  in  the  evenings  in  the  summer  season; 
and  from  thence  they  had  a  pleasant  view  of  a  great  part 
of  the  town,  and  likewise  of  part  of  the  adjacent  water 
and  of  the  opposite  shore.  The  roofs  are  commonly 
covered  with  tiles  or  shingles.  The  walls  were  white- 
washed within,  and  I  did  not  any  where  see  hangings, 
with  which  the  people  in  this  country  seem  in  general  to 
be  but  little  acquainted.  The  walls  were  quite  covered 
with  all  sorts  of  drawings  and  pictures  in  small  frames. 
On  each  side  of  the  chimnies  they  had  usually  a  sort  of 
alcove;  and  the  wall  under  the  windows  was  wainscoted, 
and  had  benches  placed  near  it.  The  alcoves,  and  all  the 
wood  work  were  painted  with  a  bluish  grey  colour. 

There  are  several  churches  in  the  town,  which  deserve 
some  attention,  i.  The  English  Church,  built  in  the  year 
1695,  3.t  the  west  end  of  (the)  town,  consisting  of  stone, 
and  has  a  steeple  with  a  bell.  2.  The  new  Dutch  Church, 
which  is  likewise  built  of  stone,  is  pretty  large  and  is  pro- 
vided with  a  steeple,  it  also  has  a  clock,  which  is  the  only 
one  in  the  town.  .  .  . 

Towards  the  sea,  on  the  extremity  of  the  promontory,  is 
a  pretty  good  fortress,  called  Fort  George,  which  entirely 
IS 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

commands  the  port,  and  can  defend  the  town,  at  least  from 
a  sudden  attack  on  the  sea  side.  Besides  that,  it  is  hke- 
wise  secured  on  the  north  or  towards  the  shore,  by  a  palli- 
sade,  which  however  (as  for  a  considerable  time  the  people 
have  had  nothing  to  fear  from  an  enemy)  is  in  many  places 
in  a  very  bad  state  of  defence. 

There  is  no  good  water  to  be  met  with  in  the  town  itself, 
but  at  a  little  distance  there  is  a  large  spring  of  good  water, 
which  the  inhabitants  take  for  their  tea,  and  for  the  uses 
of  the  kitchen.  Those,  however,  who  are  less  delicate  in 
this  point,  make  use  of  the  water  from  the  wells  in  town, 
though  it  be  very  bad.  This  want  of  good  water  lies  heavy 
upon  the  horses  of  the  strangers  that  come  to  this  place; 
for  they  do  not  like  to  drink  the  water  from  the  wells  in  the 
town. 

Peter  Kalm,  Travels  into  North  America  (translated 
by  John  Reinhold  Forster,  Warrington,  1770) 

New- York  in  1760    o        ^o^        -^^^        <i>'        "^^ 

^  I  '"HIS  city  is  situated  upon  the  point  of  a  small  island, 
''■  lying  open  to  the  bay  on  one  side,  and  on  the  others 
included  between  the  North  and  East  rivers,  and  commands 
a  fine  prospect  of  water,  the  Jerseys,  Long  Island,  Staten 
Island,  and  several  others,  which  lie  scattered  in  the  bay. 
It  contains  between  2  and  3000  houses,  and  16  or  17,000 
inhabitants,  is  tolerably  well  built,  and  has  several  good 
houses.  The  streets  are  paved,  and  very  clean,  but  in 
general  they  are  narrow;  there  are  two  or  three,  indeed, 
which  are  spacious  and  airy,  particularly  the  Broad  Way. 
The  houses  in  this  street  have  most  of  them  a  row  of  trees 
before  them ;  which  form  an  agreeable  shade,  and  produce 
a  pretty  effect.  The  whole  length  of  the  town  is  some- 
:|6 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity- 
thing  more  than  a  mile;  the  breadth  of  it  about  half  an 
one.  The  situation  is,  I  believe,  esteemed  healthy ;  but  it  is 
subject  to  one  great  inconvenience,  which  is  the  want  of 
fresh  water;  so  that  the  inhabitants  are  obliged  to  have  it 
brought  from  springs  at  some  distance  out  of  town.  There 
are  several  public  buildings,  though  but  few  that  deserve 
attention.  The  college,  when  finished,  will  be  exceedingly 
handsome :  it  is  to  be  built  on  three  sides  of  a  quadrangle, 
fronting  Hudson's  or  North  river,  and  will  be  the  most 
beautifully  situated  of  any  college,  I  believe,  in  the  world. 
At  present  only  one  wing  is  finished,  which  is  of  stone,  and 
consists  of  twenty-four  sets  of  apartments;  each  having 
a  large  sitting  room,  with  a  study,  and  bed  chamber.  They 
are  obhged  to  make  use  of  some  of  these  apartments  for 
a  master's  lodge,  library,  chapel,  hall,  etc.  but  as  soon  as 
the  whole  shall  be  completed,  there  will  be  proper  apart- 
ments for  each  of  these  offices.  The  name  of  it  is  King's 
College. 

There  are  two  churches  in  New  York,  the  old,  or  Trinity 
Church,  and  the  new  one,  or  St.  George's  Chapel;  both 
of  them  large  buildings,  the  former  in  the  Gothic  taste, 
with  a  spire,  the  other  upon  the  model  of  some  of  the  new 
churches  in  London.  Besides  these,  there  are  several 
other  places  of  religious  worship;  namely,  two  low  Dutch 
Calvinist  churches,  one  High  Dutch  ditto,  one  French 
ditto,  one  German  Lutheran  church,  one  presbyterian 
meeting-house,  one  quakers  ditto,  one  anabaptists  do,  one 
Moravian  ditto,  and  a  Jews  synagogue.  There  is  also  a 
very  handsome  charity-school  for  sixty  poor  boys  and  girls, 
a  good  work-house,  barracks  for  a  regiment  of  soldiers,  and 
one  of  the  finest  prisons  I  have  ever  seen.  The  court  or 
stadt-house  makes  no  great  figure,  but  it  is  to  be  repaired 

g  17 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

and  beautified.  There  is  a  quadrangular  fort,  capable  of 
mounting  sixty  cannon,  though  at  present  there  are,  I 
believe,  only  thirty-two.  Within  this  is  the  governor's 
palace,  and  underneath  it  a  battery  capable  of  mounting 
ninety-four  guns,  and  barracks  for  a  company  or  two  of 
soldiers.  Upon  one  of  the  islands  in  the  bay  is  an  hospital 
for  the  sick  and  wounded  seamen;  and,  upon  another, 
a  pesthouse.  These  are  the  most  noted  pubUc  buildings 
in  and  about  the  city. 

Arts  and  sciences  have  made  no  greater  progress  here 
than  in  the  other  colonies;  but  as  a  subscription  library 
has  been  lately  opened,  and  every  one  seems  zealous  to 
promote  learning,  it  may  be  hoped  that  they  will  hereafter 
advance  faster  than  they  have  done  hitherto.  The  college 
is  established  upon  the  same  plan  as  that  in  the  Jerseys, 
except  that  this  at  New  York  professes  the  principles  of 
the  church  of  England.  At  present  the  state  of  it  is  far 
from  being  flourishing,  or  so  good  as  might  be  wished. 
Its  fund  does  not  exceed  10,000  I.  currency,  and  there  is  a 
great  scarcity  of  professors.  A  commencement  was  held, 
nevertheless,  this  summer,  and  seven  gentlemen  took  de- 
grees. There  are  in  it  at  this  time  about  twenty-five 
students.  The  president,  Dr.  Johnson,  is  a  very  worthy 
and  learned  man,  but  rather  too  far  advanced  in  life  to  have 
the  direction  of  so  young  an  institution.  The  late  Dr. 
Bristow  left  to  this  college  a  fine  library,  of  which  they  are 
in  daily  expectation. 

The  inhabitants  of  New  York,  in  their  character,  very 
much  resemble  the  Pennsylvanians :  more  than  half  of 
them  are  Dutch,  and  almost  all  traders  :  they  are,  there- 
fore, habitually  frugal,  industrious,  and  parsimonious. 
Being  however  of  different  nations,  different  languages,  and 
18 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity- 
different  religions,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  give  them  any 
precise  or  determinate  character.  The  women  are  hand- 
some and  agreeable  ;  though  rather  more  reserved  than 
the  Philadelphian  ladies.  Their  amusements  are  much 
the  same  as  in  Pennsylvania;  viz.  balls,  and  sleighing 
expeditions  in  the  winter;  and,  in  the  summer,  going  in 
parties  upon  the  water,  and  fishing ;  or  making  excursions 
into  the  country.  There  are  several  houses  pleasantly 
situated  upon  East  river,  near  New  York,  where  it  is 
common  to  have  turtle-feasts  :  these  happen  once  or  twice 
in  a  week.  Thirty  or  forty  gentlemen  and  ladies  meet  and 
dine  together,  drink  tea  in  the  afternoon,  fish  and  amuse 
themselves  till  evening,  and  then  return  home  in  Italian 
chaises,  (the  fashionable  carriage  in  this  and  most  parts  of 
America,  Virginia  excepted,  where  they  make  use  only  of 
coaches,  and  these  commonly  drawn  by  six  horses),  a 
gentleman  and  lady  in  each  chaise.  In  the  way  there  is 
a  bridge,  about  three  miles  distant  from  New  York,  which 
you  always  pass  over  as  you  return,  called  the  Kissing- 
Bridge,  where  it  is  a  part  of  the  etiquette  to  salute  the  lady 
who  has  put  herself  under  your  protection. 

The  present  state  of  this  province  is  flourishing :  it  has 
an  extensive  trade  to  many  parts  of  the  world,  particularly 
to  the  West  Indies;  and  has  acquired  great  riches  by  the 
commerce  which  it  has  carried  on,  under  flags  of  truce,  to 
Cape-Frangois,  and  Monte-Christo.  The  troops,  by  hav- 
ing made  it  the  place  of  their  general  rendezvous,  have  also 
enriched  it  very  much.  However,  it  is  burthened  with 
taxes,  and  the  present  public  debt  amounts  to  more  than 
300,000  /.  currency.  The  taxes  are  laid  upon  estates  real 
and  personal;  and  there  are  duties  upon  the  Negroes,  and 
other  importations.  The  provincial  troops  are  about 
19 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York. 

2600  men.  The  difference  of  exchange  between  currency 
and  bills  is  from  70  to  80  per  cent. 

Before  I  left  New  York,  I  took  a  ride  upon  Long  Island, 
the  richest  spot,  in  the  opinion  of  the  New-Yorkers,  of  all 
America;  and  where  they  generally  have  their  villas,  or 
country  houses.  It  is  undeniably  beautiful,  and  some  parts 
of  it  are  remarkably  fertile,  but  not  equal,  I  think,  to  the 
Jerseys.  The  length  of  it  is  something  more  than  100 
miles,  and  the  breadth  25.  About  15  or  16  miles  from 
the  west  end  of  it,  there  opens  a  large  plain  between  20  and 
30  miles  long,  and  4  or  5  broad.  There  is  not  a  tree 
growing  upon  it,  and  it  is  asserted  that  there  never  were 
any.  Strangers  are  always  carried  to  see  this  place,  as 
a  great  curiosity,  and  the  only  one  of  the  kind  in  North 
America. 

Andrew  Burnaby,  Travels  through  the  Middle  Settle- 
ments in  North-America,  in  the  Years  17 59  and  17^0 

A  Mass  Meeting  in  1794      •<;:i.'        <:iy        ^Qy        ^s:> 

TN  the  latter  end  of  1794,  Mr.  Jay  arrived  with  the  fa- 
■^  mous  British  Treaty;  Congress  being  then  in  session, 
it  was  submitted  to  their  consideration.  As  Washington 
and  Hamilton,  and  most  of  the  worthies  who  had  risked 
their  lives  and  staked  their  all,  and  had  just  achieved  their 
country's  independence,  thought  it  was  for  the  good  of  the 
nation,  it  was  on  the  point  of  becoming  a  law;  but  the 
hod-men  and  the  ashmen,  and  the  clam  men,  thought 
otherwise;  accordingly  a  meeting  was  called  at  4  p.m. 
in  front  of  the  old  City  Hall,  at  the  head  of  Broad  Street 
to  settle  this  momentous  question.  Having  never  seen 
a  meeting  of  the  sovereign  people  in  ^  free  country  I  was 
anxious  to  attend;  and  that  I  might  have  a  fair  view,  and 
20 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

be  out  of  harm's  way,  I  got  perched  on  a  branch  of  that 
large  spreading  tree  that  graced  the  corner  of  Broad  and 
Wall  Streets,  since  the  days  when  the  Dutch  negroes  used 
to  dance  and  crack  eggs  in  the  ferry-house  corner  of  Gar- 
den and  Broad  Streets.  Long  before  the  hour  the  broad 
space  was  filled  by  the  motley  group ;  there  was  the  Irish 
(patriot)  laborer,  his  face  powdered  with  lime,  his  shirt 
sleeves  torn  or  rolled  up  to  his  shoulders,  he  came  rattling 
up  with  his  iron  shod  brogans;  and  the  clam  men  were 
there;  and  the  boat  men  were  there;  and  the  oyster- 
men  were  there;  and  the  ashmen  were  there;  and  the 
cartmen  were  there  and  their  horses  were  there  —  and  the 
horses  appeared  to  have  more  sense  than  their  masters; 
for  the  horses  licked  and  loved  the  hand  that  fed  them, 
but  these  ignorant  cartmen  knew  not  Him  in  whom  they 
live  move  and  have  their  being. 

The  mob  filled  the  large  space  down  Broad  as  far  as 
Garden  Street,  down  Wall  Street  as  far  as  the  Mechanics' 
Bank,  and  up  as  far  as  New  Street.  On  the  corner  (then 
occupied  as  a  watch  house  but  now  by  friend  Burtsell  as 
a  Blank  Book  Store)  stood  a  group,  say  eight  or  ten 
respectable  looking  characters;  compassion  was  painted 
on  their  face,  and  pity  shone  from  their  swimming  eyes. 
At  the  time  I  knew  none  of  them,  but  afterwards  learned 
that  among  them  was  Gen.  Hamilton,  Cols.  V.  G.  &c. 
men  who  had  just  sheathed  their  swords,  and  wiped  the 
dust  and  sweat  from  their  brows,  after  having  gained  their 
country's  freedom.  On  the  steps  of  the  City  Hall  (for 
these  men  had  usurped  the  place  of  justice)  stood  another 
group  of  cold  calculating  sinister  looking  faces.  In  their 
countenances  and  eyes,  you  could  read  deeds,  and  plans 
of  deep,  dark  and  daring  political  intrigue.    I  knew  none 

21 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

of  them;  but  their  impression  is  stamped  to  this  hour 
upon  my  memory.  A  tall  fellow  got  up  and  called  the 
assembly  to  order  —  he  might  as  well  have  told  Bunker's 
Hill  to  be  removed  to  the  deeps  of  Montaug  Point  —  he 

then  proposed  Mr.  as  chairman;    he  then  took  out 

a  paper  and  read  something  which  neither  he  nor  anyone 
else  understood;  he  then  got  some  one  to  second  the 
motions ;  he  then  said  if  anyone  wished  to  speak  he  might 
say  on.  In  those  days  there  stood  a  small  house  with  its 
gable  end  to  the  street  (No.  3  or  5  Broad  Street)  it  had 
a  high  stoop  and  was  occupied  by  J.  B.  who  made  iron 
cages  wherein  to  confine  tame  birds.  On  this  stoop  Gen. 
Hamilton  stood  up;  his  clear  full  voice  sounded  like  music 
over  the  heads  of  the  rabble,  and  they  stood  still  for  some 
minutes;  he  lowered  himself  from  the  pedestal  of  his 
natural  eloquence,  and  spoke  in  language  simple  plain, 
and  suited  to  the  capacity  of  his  hearers.  His  words  were 
truths,  and  they  understood  them;  they  were  cut  to  the 
heart,  and  they  gnashed  on  him  with  their  teeth;  violent 
hands  were  laid  on  him  in  the  midst  of  his  speech;  he 
was  dragged  from  the  stoop  and  hustled  through  the  street ! 
You  Americans,  with  all  your  boasted  pride,  you  looked 
quietly  on  and  saw  your  Hamilton,  the  right  hand  swords- 
man of  Washington,  gagged  and  dragged  through  the 
street.  Thinks  I  to  myself  what  a  fine  thing  democracy 
is  in  theory.  .  .  .  To  return ;  when  the  uproar  had  ceased, 
Mr.  Longfellow  roared  out:  all  you  who  approve  of  ad- 
journing to  Bowling  Green  to  assist  in  burning  the  British 
Treaty  will  please  to  say  Aye.  The  sound  of  the  ayes 
shook  the  very  dungeons  of  the  watchhouse  —  the  treaty 
was  burned,  while  the  Irishmen  danced  the  whiteboys 
march,  and  the  Frenchmen  sang,  Dan  sa  la  Carmanoll; 

23 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

the  boatmen,  the  clam  men,  the  hod  and  the  oystermen 
retired  to  the  grogshops  around  the  Whitehall,  while  the 
horses  and  cartmen  at  the  cellar  doors  around  the  Coffee- 
House  Slip.  Thus  ended  the  first  practical  lesson  I  had 
ever  seen  of  republican  simplicity. 
From  Grant  Thorburn's  Forty  Years'  Residence  in 
America 

Fashions  in  New  York  in  1797        ^^y        "O        -vb' 

New  York,  May  28th,  1797 
TVyrY  DEAR  SISTER:  The  enclosed  pacquet  was 
■^'-■-  intended  to  be  sent  by  General  Floyd,  but  he  went 
away  before  it  was  given  to  him  —  I  have  forgot  what  I 
wrote  in  it,  but  shall  send  it  along  &  perhaps  there  may 
be  something  entertaining  in  it  —  Lucy  I  beheve  most 
of  the  comissions  from  you  &  sister  Hannah  have  been 
attended  to  by  Brother  George  or  myself  —  I  have  bought 
two  bands  which  are  the  most  fashionable  trimings  for 
beaver  hats,  a  white  one  for  the  blue  hat,  &  a  yellow  for 
the  black  one,  they  should  be  put  twice  around  the  crown 
&  fastned  forward  in  the  form  of  a  beau  knot.  Brother 
has  got  each  of  you  a  pink  silk  shawl  which  are  very 
fashionable  also  —  Many  Ladies  wear  them  for  turbans, 
made  in  the  manner  that  you  used  to  make  muslin  ones 
last  summer,  George  has  given  me  one  like  them,  The 
fine  lace  cost  10  shillings  a  yard,  &  I  think  it  is  very  hand- 
some, there  is  enough  for  two  handkerchiefs  &  two 
double  tuckers,  the  way  to  make  handkerchief's  is  to  set 
lace,  or  a  rufiie  on  a  strait  piece  of  muslin,  (only  pieced  on 
the  back  to  make  it  set  to  your  neck,)  &  put  it  on  so  as  to 
show  only  the  ruffle,  &  make  it  look  as  if  it  was  set  on  the 
neck  of  your  gown,  many  Ladies  trim  the  neck  of  thier 
23 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

gowns  with  lace  &  go  without  handkerchiefs  but  I  think 
it  is  a  neater  way  to  wear  them  —  with  fashionable  gowns 
it  will  not  be  necessary  to  have  much  more  than  half  a 
yard  in  the  width  of  your  tuckers  —  I  send  a  doll,  by 
Brother  George  which  I  intended  to  have  dressed  in  a 
neater  manner  but  really  could  not  find  time  —  it  however 
has  rather  a  fashionable  appearance,  the  cap  is  made  in 
a  good  form  but  you  would  make  one  much  handsomer 
than  I  could,  the  beau  to  Miss  Dollys  poultice  neck  cloth 
is  rather  large  but  the  thickness  is  very  moderate  —  I 
think  a  cap  crown  &  turban  would  become  you  — 
I  have  got  a  braid  of  hair  which  cost  four  dollars  it  should 
be  fasten  up  with  a  comb,  (without  platting)  under  your 
turban  if  it  has  a  crown  &.  over  it,  if  without  a  crown  — 
Brother  has  got  some  very  beautiful  sattin  muslin,  &  also 
some  handsome  "tartan  plad"  gingham  for  your  gowns, 
there  is  a  large  pattern  for  two  train  gowns  of  the  muslin, 
which  should  be  made  thre  breadths  wide  two  breadths 
to  reach  to  the  shoulder  straps  forward,  and  one  breadth 
to  be  cut  part  of  the  way  down  before,  to  go  over  the  shoulder 
&  part  of  it  to  be  pleated  on  to  the  shoulder  straps,  meeting 
the  back  breadths,  &  some  of  it  to  go  around  the  neck, 
like  the  doll's  —  the  pleats  should  be  made  pretty  small, 
&  not  stitched  to  the  lining,  but  you  should  wear  binders 
over  your  shoulders  —  an  inch  &  a  half  should  be  the  width 
of  your  binders.  (I  must  have  done  writing  this  pretty 
soon,  the  last  sentence  if  you  observe  is  quite  poetical 
—  but  let  me  stick  to  my  text  Fashion).  It  is  the  fashion 
to  have  draw  strings  fastned  on  the  corners  of  the  shoulder 
straps  by  the  sieves  on  the  back,  and  have  a  tack  large 
enough  for  them  to  run  in,  made  to  cross  on  the  back,  run 
under  the  arms  an  inch  below  the  sieves  &  tie  before  — 
24 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

I  should  advise  you  to  have  your  gingham  one  made  in 
that  way,  with  draw'd  sieves  for  sister  Hannah  &  I  have 
seen  as  large  Ladies  as  you  with  them,  &  I  think  they 
would  look  very  well  for  you.  Sieves  should  be  made  half 
a  yard  wide  &  not  drawd  less  than  seven  or  eight  times, 
I  think  they  look  best  to  have  two  or  three  drawings  close 
together  &a  plain  spot  alternately  —  Some  of  the  ladies 
have  thier  sieves  coverd  with  drawing  tacks,  &  have  thier 
elbows  uncover'd  if  you  dont  like  short  sieves,  you  should 
have  long  ones  with  short  ones  to  come  down  allmost  to 
your  elbows,  drawed  four  or  five  by  the  bottom  —  if 
yo(u)  want  to  walk  with  long  gowns  you  must  draw  the 
train  up  thr'o  one  of  the  pocket  holes,  I  have  bought  some 
callico  for  chints  trimings  for  old  gowns,  if  you  have  any 
that  you  wish  to  wear  short  they  are  very  fashionable  at 
present,  &  gowns  that  are  trimed  with  them  should  be  made 
only  to  touch  the  ground,  there  is  enough  of  the  dark 
stripe  for  one  gown,  &  enough  of  the  light  for  one  there 
should  be  enough  white  left  on  the  dark  stripe  to  turn 
down  to  prevent  its  ravelling.  I  gave  lo  shillings  for  the 
callico  &  have  been  laughed  at  for  my  'foolish  bargain' 
but  I  am  not  convinced  that  it  is  foolish.  The  William 
Street  merchants  ask  three  shillings  a  yard  for  trimings 
like  the  wide  stripe  &  two  for  the  narrow  —  I  guess  you 
will  like  the  narrow  —  the  kid  shoes  are  of  the  most 
fashionable  kind,  &  the  others  of  the  best  quality 
Brother  George  keeps  enquiring  for  my  letter —  &  as 
I  have  fill'd  up  my  paper  I'll  leave  the  improvement  for 
you  to  make  With  love  to  sister  Hannah  &  Benjamin 
I  am  my  dear  sister  yours,  most  affectionately 

R  Huntington 
Miss  Lucy  Huntington 

25 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

An  Old  New  York  Salon     ■^iy        •^o        ^vi*-        •'v^ 

TV /TANY  people  were  at  their  country-seats,  but  politics 
■^' -•■  kept  a  number  of  men  in  town,  and  for  this  political 
and  wholly  masculine  salon  of  Mrs.  Croix,  Gouverneur 
Morris  drove  down  from  Morrisania,  Robert  Livingston 
from  Clermont;  Governor  Clinton  had  made  it  convenient 
to  remain  a  day  longer  in  New  York.  Dr.  Franklin  had 
been  a  guest  of  my  lady  for  the  past  two  days.  They  were 
all,  with  the  exception  of  Clinton,  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  Hamilton,  Steuben  and  Fish  arrived;  and  several 
of  the  Crugers,  Colonel  Duer,  General  Knox,  Mayor 
Duane,  Melancthon  Smith,  Mr.  Watts,  Yates,  Lansing, 
and  a  half-dozen  lesser  lights.  Mrs.  Croix  sat  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  her  chair  being  somewhat  higher  and  more 
elaborate  than  its  companions,  suggested  a  throne :  Madam 
de  Stael  set  the  fashion  in  many  affectations  which  were  not 
long  travelling  to  America.  In  the  house,  Mrs.  Croix 
discarded  the  hoopskirt,  and  the  classic  folds  of  her  soft 
muslin  gown  revealed  a  figure  as  superb  in  contour  as 
it  was  majestic  in  carriage.  She  looked  to  be  twenty- 
eight,  but  was  reputed  to  have  been  born  in  1769.  For 
women  so  endowed  years  have  little  meaning.  They  are 
born  with  what  millions  of  their  sex  never  acquire,  a  few 
with  the  aid  of  time  and  experience  only.  Nature  had 
fondly  and  diabolically  equipped  her  to  conquer  the  world, 
to  be  one  of  its  successes;  and  so  she  was  to  the  last  of 
her  ninety-six  years.  Her  subsequent  career  was  as  bril- 
liant in  Europe  as  it  had  been,  and  was  to  be  again,  in 
America.  In  Paris,  Lafayette  was  her  sponsor,  and  she 
counted  princes,  cardinals,  and  nobles  among  her  con- 
quests, and  died  in  the  abundance  of  wealth  and  honours. 
26 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

If  her  sins  found  her  out,  they  surprised  her  in  secret  only. 
To  the  world  she  gave  no  sign,  and  carried  an  unbroken 
spirit  and  an  unbowed  head  into  a  vault  which  looks  as 
if  not  even  the  trump  of  Judgment  Day  could  force  its 
marble  doors  to  open  and  its  secrets  to  come  forth.  But 
those  doors  closed  behind  her  seventy-seven  years  later, 
when  the  greatest  of  her  victims  had  been  dust  half  a  cen- 
tury, and  many  others  were  long  since  forgotten.  To-night, 
in  her  glorious  triumphant  womanhood  she  had  no  thought 
of  vaults  in  the  cold  hillside  of  Trinity,  and  when  Hamilton 
entered  the  room,  she  rose  and  courtesied  deeply.  Then, 
as  he  bent  over  her  hand:  "At  last.  Is  it  you?"  she  ex- 
claimed softly.  ' '  Has  this  honour  indeed  come  to  my  house  ? 
I  have  waited  a  lifetime,  sir,  and  I  took  pains  to  assure  you 
long  since  of  a  welcome." 

"Do  not  remind  me  of  those  wretched  wasted  months," 
replied  Hamilton,  gallantly,  and  Dr.  Franklin  nodded  with 
approval.  "Be  sure,  madam,  that  I  shall  risk  no  reproaches 
in  the  future." 

She  passed  him  on  in  the  fashion  of  royalty,  and  was 
equally  gracious  to  Steuben  and  Fish,  although  she  did 
not  courtesy.  The  company,  which  had  been  scattered 
in  groups,  the  deepest  about  the  throne  of  the  hostess, 
immediately  converged  and  made  Hamilton  their  common 
centre.  Would  Washington  accept?  Surely  he  must 
know.  Would  he  choose  to  be  addressed  as  "His  Serene 
Highness,"  "His  High  Mightiness,"  or  merely  as  "Ex- 
cellency"? Would  so  haughty  an  aristocrat  lend  himself 
agreeably  to  the  common  forms  of  Republicanism,  even 
if  he  had  refused  a  crown,  and  had  been  the  most  jealous 
guardian  of  the  liberties  of  the  American  people?  An 
aristocrat  is  an  aristocrat,  and  doubtless  he  would  observe 
27 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

all  the  rigid  formalities  of  court  life.  Most  of  those 
present  heartily  hoped  that  he  would.  They,  too,  were 
jealous  of  their  liberties,  but  had  no  yearning  toward  a 
republican  simplicity,  which,  to  their  minds,  savoured  of 
plebeianism.  Socially  they  still  were  royalists,  whatever 
their  politics,  and  many  a  coat  of  arms  was  yet  in  its  frame. 

"Of  course  Washington  will  be  our  first  President," 
replied  Hamilton,  who  was  prepared  to  go  to  Mount 
Vernon,  if  necessary.  "I  have  had  no  communication 
from  him  on  the  subject,  but  he  would  obey  the  command 
of  public  duty  if  he  were  on  his  death-bed.  His  reluctance 
is  natural,  for  his  life  has  been  a  hard  one  in  the  field,  and 
his  tastes  are  those  of  a  country  gentleman,  — tastes  which 
he  has  recently  been  permitted  to  indulge  to  the  full  for  the 
first  time.  Moreover,  he  is  so  modest  that  it  is  difficult  to 
make  him  understand  that  no  other  man  is  to  be  thought  of 
for  these  first  difficult  years.  When  he  does,  there  is  no 
more  question  of  his  acceptance  than  there  was  of  his  as- 
suming the  command  of  the  army.  As  for  titles  they  come 
about  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  it  is  quite  positive  that 
Washington,  although  a  Republican,  will  never  become 
a  Democrat.  He  is  a  grandee  and  will  continue  to  live 
like  one,  and  the  man  who  presumes  to  take  a  liberty  with 
him  is  lost." 

Mrs.  Croix,  quite  forgotten,  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
a  smile  succeeding  the  puzzled  annoyance  of  her  eyes.  In 
this  house  her  words  were  the  jewels  for  which  this  costly 
company  scrambled,  but  Hamilton  had  not  been  met 
abroad  for  weeks,  and  from  him  there  was  always  some- 
thing to  learn ;  whereas  from  even  the  most  brilliant  of 
women  —  she  shrugged  her  shoulders ;  and  her  eyes,  as 
they  dwelt  on  Hamilton,  gradually  filled  with  an  expression 
28 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

of  idolatrous  pride.  The  new  delight  of  self-effacement 
was  one  of  the  keenest  she  had  known. 

The  bombardment  continued.  The  Vice-President? 
Whom  should  Hamilton  support?  Adams?  Hancock? 
Was  it  true  that  there  was  a  schism  in  the  Federal  party 
that  might  give  the  anti-Federalists,  with  Clinton  at  their 
head,  a  chance  for  the  Vice-Presidency  at  least?  Who 
would  be  Washington's  advisers  besides  himself?  Would 
the  President  have  a  cabinet?  Would  Congress  sanction 
it?  Whom  should  he  want  as  confreres,  and  whom  in  the 
Senate  to  further  his  plans?  Whom  did  he  favour  as 
Senators  and  Representatives  from  New  York?  Could 
this  rage  for  amendments  be  stopped?  What  was  to  be 
the  fate  of  the  circular  letter?  Was  all  danger  of  a  new 
Constitutional  Convention  well  over?  What  about  the 
future  site  of  the  Capital  —  would  the  North  get  it,  or  the 
South? 

All  these,  the  raging  questions  of  the  day,  it  took  Hamil- 
ton the  greater  part  of  the  evening  to  answer  or  parry,  but 
he  deftly  altered  his  orbit  until  he  stood  beside  Mrs.  Croix, 
the  company  before  her  shrine.  He  had  encountered  her 
eyes,  but  although  he  knew  the  supreme  surrender  of 
women  in  the  first  stages  of  passion,  he  also  understood  the 
vanities  and  weaknesses  of  human  nature  too  well  not  to 
apprehend  a  chill  of  the  affections  under  too  prolonged  a 
mortification. 

Clinton  entered  at  midnight;  and  after  almost  bending 
his  gouty  knee  to  the  hostess,  whom  he  had  never  seen  in 
such  softened  yet  dazzling  beauty,  he  measured  Hamilton 
for  a  moment,  then  laughed  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  a  wonderful  fighter,"  he  said,  "and  you  beat 
me  squarely.  We'll  meet  in  open  combat  again  and  again, 
29 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York. 

no  doubt  of  it,  and  I  hope  we  will,  for  you  rouse  all  my 
mettle;   but  I  like  you,  sir,  I  like  you.     I  can't  help  it." 
Gertrude  Atherton  in  The  Conqueror 

The  Battery  in  1804  •<;:>        -v>        ^v^        ^^i- 

'T'HE  modem  spectator,  who  wanders  through  the  streets 
-*-  of  this  populous  city,  can  scarcely  form  an  idea  of 
the  different  appearance  they  presented  in  the  primitive 
days  of  the  Doubter.  The  busy  hum  of  multitudes,  the 
shouts  of  revelry,  the  rumbling  equipages  of  fashion,  the 
rattling  of  accursed  carts,  and  all  the  spirit-grieving  sounds 
of  brawling  commerce,  were  unknown  in  the  settlement 
of  New  Amsterdam.  The  grass  grew  quietly  in  the  high- 
ways; the  bleating  sheep  and  frolicsome  calves  sported 
about  the  verdant  ridge,  where  now  the  Broadway  loungers 
take  their  morning  stroll  ;  the  cunning  fox  or  ravenous 
wolf  skulked  in  the  woods,  where  now  are  to  be  seen  the 
dens  of  Gomez  and  his  righteous  fraternity  of  money- 
brokers;  and  flocks  of  vociferous  geese  cackled  about  the 
fields  where  now  the  great  Tammany  wigwam  and  the 
patriotic  tavern  of  Martling  echo  with  the  wranglings  of 
the  mob. 

In  these  good  times  did  a  true  and  enviable  equality  of 
rank  and  property  prevail,  equally  removed  from  the 
arrogance  of  wealth,  and  the  servility  and  heart-burnings 
of  repining  poverty,  and,  what  in  my  mind  is  still  more 
conducive  to  tranquillity  and  harmony  among  friends,  a 
happy  equality  of  intellect  was  likewise  to  be  seen.  The 
minds  of  the  good  burghers  of  New  Amsterdam  seemed  all  to 
have  been  cast  in  one  mould,  and  to  be  those  honest,  blunt 
minds,  which,  like  certain  manufactures,  are  made  by  the 
gross  and  considered  as  exceedingly  good  for  common  use. 
30 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
four,  on  a  fine  afternoon  in  the  glowing  month  of  September, 
I  took  my  customary  walk  upon  the  Battery,  which  is  at 
once  the  pride  and  bulwark  of  this  ancient  and  impregnable 
city  of  New  York.  The  ground  on  which  I  trod  was 
hallowed  by  recollections  of  the  past;  and  as  I  slowly 
wandered  through  the  long  alley  of  poplars,  which,  like 
so  many  birch  brooms  standing  on  end,  diffused  a  melan- 
choly and  lugubrious  shade,  my  imagination  drew  a 
contrast  between  the  surrounding  scenery  and  what  it  was 
in  the  classic  days  of  our  forefathers.  Where  the  govern- 
ment house  by  name,  but  the  custom-house  by  occupation, 
proudly  reared  its  brick  walls  and  wooden  pillars,  there 
whilom  stood  the  low,  but  substantial,  red-tiled  mansion 
of  the  renowned  Wouter  Van  Twiller.  Around  it  the 
mighty  bulwarks  of  Fort  Amsterdam  frowned  defiance  to 
every  absent  foe ;  but,  like  many  a  whiskered  warrior  and 
gallant  militia  captain,  confined  their  martial  deeds  to 
frowns  alone.  The  mud  breastworks  had  long  been 
levelled  with  the  earth,  and  their  site  converted  into  the 
green  lawns  and  leafy  alleys  of  the  Battery;  where  the  gay 
apprentice  sported  his  Sunday  coat,  and  the  laborious 
mechanic,  relieved  from  the  dirt  and  drudgery  of  the  week, 
poured  his  weekly  tale  of  love  into  the  half  averted  ear  of 
the  sentimental  chambermaid.  The  capacious  bay  still 
presented  the  same  expansive  sheet  of  water,  studded  with 
islands,  sprinkled  with  fishing  boats,  and  bounded  by 
shores  of  picturesque  beauty.  But  the  dark  forests  which 
once  clothed  those  shores  had  been  violated  by  the  savage 
hand  of  cultivation,  and  their  tangled  mazes,  and  im- 
penetrable thickets,  had  degenerated  into  teeming  orchards 
and  waving  fields  of  grain.  Even  Governor's  Island,  once 
31 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

a  smiling  garden,  appertaining  to  the  sovereigns  of  the 
province,  was  now  covered  with  fortifications,  inclosing  a 
tremendous  block-house,  —  so  that  this  once  peaceful 
island  resembled  a  fierce  little  warrior  in  a  big  cocked  hat, 
breathing  gunpowder  and  defiance  to  the  world ! 

For  some  time  did  I  indulge  in  a  pensive  train  of  thought ; 
contrasting,  in  sober  sadness,  the  present  day  with  the 
hallowed  years  behind  the  mountains;  lamenting  the 
melancholy  progress  of  improvement,  and  praising  the  zeal 
with  which  our  worthy  burghers  endeavored  to  preserve 
the  wrecks  of  venerable  customs,  prejudices,  and  errors 
from  the  overwhelming  tide  of  modern  innovation,  — 
when,  by  degrees,  my  ideas  took  a  different  turn,  and  I 
insensibly  awakened  to  an  enjoyment  of  the  beauties 
around  me. 

It  was  one  of  those  rich  autumnal  days  which  heaven 
particularly  bestows  upon  the  beauteous  island  of  Manna- 
hata  and  its  vicinity,  —  not  a  floating  cloud  obscured  the 
azure  firmament,  —  the  sun,  rolling  in  glorious  splendor 
through  his  ethereal  course,  seemed  to  expand  his  honest 
Dutch  countenance  into  an  unusual  expression  of  benevo- 
lence, as  he  smiled  his  evening  salutation  upon  a  city 
which  he  delights  to  visit  with  his  most  bounteous  beams, 
—  the  very  winds  seemed  to  hold  in  their  breaths  in  mute 
attention,  lest  they  should  ruffle  the  tranquillity  of  the 
hour,  —  and  the  waveless  bosom  of  the  bay  presented  a 
polished  mirror,  in  which  nature  beheld  herself  and  smiled. 
The  standard  of  our  city,  reserved,  like  a  choice  handker- 
chief, for  days  of  gala,  hung  motionless  on  the  flag-staff, 
which  forms  the  handle  of  a  gigantic  churn;  and  even 
the  tremulous  leaves  of  the  poplar  and  the  aspen  ceased  to 
vibrate  to  the  breath  of  heaven.  Everything  seemed  to 
32 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

acquiesce  in  the  profound  repose  of  nature.  The  formid- 
able eighteen-pounders  slept  in  the  embrasures  of  the 
wooden  batteries,  seemingly  gathering  fresh  strength  to 
fight  the  battles  of  their  country  on  the  next  fourth  of  July; 
the  solitary  drum  on  Governor's  Island  forgot  to  call  the 
garrison  to  their  shovels;  the  evening  gun  had  not  yet 
sounded  its  signal  for  all  the  regular  well-meaning  poultry 
throughout  the  country  to  go  to  roost;  and  the  fleet  of 
canoes,  at  anchor  between  Gibbet  Island  and  Communipaw, 
slumbered  on  their  rakes,  and  suffered  the  innocent  oysters 
to  lie  for  a  while  unmolested  in  the  soft  mud  of  their  native 
banks !  My  own  feelings  sympathized  with  the  contagious 
tranquillity,  and  I  should  infallibly  have  dozed  upon  one 
of  those  fragments  of  benches,  which  our  benevolent 
magistrates  have  provided  for  the  benefit  of  convalescent 
loungers,  had  not  the  extraordinary  inconvenience  of  the 
couch  set  all  repose  at  defiance. 

Washington  Irving  in 

Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York 

As  seen  by  Mrs.  Trollope  in  183 1   ^o        ^^r^^        ^:> 

T  HAVE  never  seen  the  bay  of  Naples,  I  can  therefore 
■*■  make  no  comparison,  but  my  imagination  is  incapable 
of  conceiving  any  thing  of  the  kind  more  beautiful  than  the 
harbour  of  New  York.  Various  and  lovely  are  the  objects 
which  meet  the  eye  on  every  side,  but  the  naming  them 
would  only  be  to  give  a  list  of  words,  without  conveying  the 
faintest  idea  of  the  scene.  I  doubt  if  even  the  pencil  of 
Turner  could  do  it  justice,  bright  and  glorious  as  it  rose 
upon  us.  We  seemed  to  enter  the  harbour  of  New  York 
upon  waves  of  liquid  gold,  and  as  we  darted  past  the  green 
isles  which  rise  from  its  bosom,  like  guardian  sentinels 
D  33 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

of  the  fair  city,  the  setting  sun  stretched  his  horizontal 
beams  farther  and  farther  at  each  moment,  as  if  to  point 
out  to  us  some  new  glory  in  the  landscape. 

New  York,  indeed,  appeared  to  us,  even  when  we  saw 
it  by  a  soberer  light,  a  lovely  and  a  noble  city.  To  us  who 
had  been  so  long  travelling  through  half-cleared  forests, 
and  sojourning  among  an  "I'm-as-good-as-you"  popula- 
tion, it  seemed,  perhaps,  more  beautiful,  more  splendid, 
and  more  refined  than  it  might  have  done,  had  we  arrived 
there  directly  from  London;  but  making  every  allowance 
for  this,  I  must  still  declare  that  I  think  New  York  one  of 
the  finest  cities  I  ever  saw,  and  as  much  superior  to  every 
other  in  the  Union  (Philadelphia  not  excepted),  as  London 
to  Liverpool,  or  Paris  to  Rouen.  Its  advantages  of  position 
are,  perhaps,  unequalled  anywhere.  Situated  on  an  island, 
which  I  think  it  will  one  day  cover,  it  rises,  like  Venice,  from 
the  sea,  and  like  that  fairest  of  cities  in  the  days  of  her 
glory,  receives  into  its  lap  tribute  of  all  the  riches  of  the 
earth. 

The  southern  point  of  Manhattan  Island  divides  the 
waters  of  the  harbour  into  the  north  and  east  rivers;  on 
this  point  stands  the  city  of  New  York,  extending  from 
river  to  river,  and  running  northward  to  the  extent  of  three 
or  four  miles.  I  think  it  covers  nearly  as  much  ground  as 
Paris,  but  is  much  less  thickly  peopled.  The  extreme 
point  is  fortified  towards  the  sea  by  a  battery,  and  forms 
an  admirable  point  of  defence;  but  in  these  piping  days 
of  peace,  it  is  converted  into  a  public  promenade,  and 
one  more  beautiful,  I  should  suppose,  no  city  could  boast. 
From  hence  commences  the  splendid  Broadway,  as  the 
fine  avenue  is  called,  which  runs  through  the  whole  city. 
This  noble  street  may  vie  with  any  I  ever  saw,  for  its 
34 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

length  and  breadth,  its  handsome  shops,  neat  awnings, 
excellent  trottoir,  and  well-dressed  pedestrians.  It  has 
not  the  crowded  glitter  of  Bond  Street  equipages,  nor  the 
gorgeous  fronted  palaces  of  Regent  Street ;  but  it  is  mag- 
nificent in  its  extent,  and  ornamented  by  several  handsome 
buildings,  some  of  them  surrounded  by  grass  and  trees. 
The  Park,  in  which  stands  the  noble  city  hall,  is  a  very  fine 
area.  I  never  found  that  the  most  graphic  description  of 
a  city  could  give  me  any  feeling  of  being  there ;  and  even 
if  others  have  the  power,  I  am  very  sure  I  have  not,  of 
setting  churches  and  squares,  and  long-drawn  streets, 
before  the  mind's  eye.  I  will  not,  therefore,  attempt  a  de- 
tailed description  of  this  great  metropolis  of  the  new  world, 
but  will  only  say  that  during  the  seven  weeks  we  stayed 
there,  we  always  found  something  new  to  see  and  to  admire ; 
and  were  it  not  so  very  far  from  all  the  old-world  things  which 
cling  about  the  heart  of  an  European,  I  should  say  that  I 
never  saw  a  city  more  desirable  as  a  residence. 

The  dwelling  houses  of  the  higher  classes  are  extremely 
handsome,  and  very  richly  furnished.  Silk  or  satin  furni- 
ture is  as  often,  or  oftener,  seen  than  chintz;  the  mirrors 
are  as  handsome  as  in  London ;  the  chififonniers,  slabs,  and 
marble  tables  as  elegant;  and  in  addition,  they  have  all 
the  pretty  tasteful  decoration  of  French  porcelaine,  and 
or-molu  in  much  greater  abundance,  because  at  a  much 
cheaper  rate.  Every  part  of  their  houses  is  well  carpeted, 
and  the  exterior  finishing,  such  as  steps,  railings,  and  door- 
frames, are  very  superior.  Almost  every  house  has  hand- 
some green  blinds  on  the  outside;  balconies  are  not  very 
general,  nor  do  the  houses  display,  externally,  so  many 
flowers  as  those  of  Paris  and  London;  but  I  saw  many 
rooms  decorated  within,  exactly  like  those  of  an  European 
35 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

petite  maitresse.  Little  tables,  looking  and  smelling  like 
flower  beds,  portfolios,  nick-nacks,  bronzes,  busts,  cameos, 
and  alabaster  vases,  illustrated  copies  of  lady-like  rhymes 
bound  in  silk,  and,  in  short,  all  the  pretty  coxcomalities 
of  the  drawing-room  scattered  about  with  the  same  profuse 
and  studied  negligence  as  with  us. 

Hudson  Square  and  its  neighbourhood  is,  I  believe,  the 
most  fashionable  part  of  the  town ;  the  square  is  beautiful, 
excellently  well  planted  with  a  great  variety  of  trees,  and 
only  wanting  our  frequent  and  careful  mowing  to  make 
it  equal  to  any  square  in  London.  The  iron  railing  which 
surrounds  this  enclosure  is  as  high  and  as  handsome  as 
that  of  the  Tuileries,  and  it  will  give  some  idea  of  the  care 
bestowed  on  its  decoration,  to  know  that  the  gravel  for 
the  walks  was  conveyed  by  barges  from  Boston,  not  as 
ballast,  but  as  freight. 

The  great  defect  in  the  houses  is  their  extreme  uniformity 
—  when  you  have  seen  one,  you  have  seen  all.  Neither 
do  I  quite  like  the  arrangement  of  the  rooms.  In  nearly 
all  the  houses  the  dining  and  drawing-rooms  are  on  the  same 
floor,  with  ample  folding  doors  between  them;  when 
thrown  together  they  certainly  make  a  very  noble  apart- 
ment; but  no  doors  can  be  barrier  sufficient  between 
dining  and  drawing-rooms.  Mixed  dinner  parties  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  however,  are  very  rare,  which  is  a 
great  defect  in  the  society;  not  only  as  depriving  them  of 
the  most  social  and  hospitable  manner  of  meeting,  but  as 
leading  to  frequent  dinner  parties  of  gentlemen  without 
ladies,  which  certainly  does  not  conduce  to    refinement. 

The  evening  parties,  excepting  such  as  are  expressly 
for  the  young  people,  are  chiefly  conversational;  we  are 
too  late  in  the  season  for  large  parties,  but  we  saw  enough 
36 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

to  convince  us  that  there  is  society  to  be  met  with  in  New 
York,  which  would  be  deemed  delightful  any  where. 
Cards  are  very  seldom  used ;  and  music,  from  their  having 
very  little  professional  aid  at  their  parties,  is  seldom,  I  believe, 
as  good  as  what  is  heard  at  private  concerts  in  London. 

The  Americans  have  certainly  not  the  same  besoin  of 
being  amused,  as  other  people;  they  may  be  the  wiser 
for  this,  perhaps,  but  it  makes  them  less  agreeable  to  a 
looker-on. 

There  are  three  theatres  at  New  York,  all  of  which  we 
visited.  The  Park  Theatre  is  the  only  one  licensed  by 
fashion,  but  the  Bowery  is  infinitely  superior  in  beauty; 
it  is  indeed  as  pretty  a  theatre  as  I  ever  entered,  perfect  as 
to  size  and  proportion,  elegantly  decorated,  and  the  scenery 
and  machinery  equal  to  any  in  London,  but  it  is  not  the 
fashion.  The  Chatham  is  so  utterly  condemned  by  bon 
ton,  that  it  requires  some  courage  to  decide  upon  going 
there ;  nor  do  I  think  my  curiosity  would  have  penetrated 
so  far,  had  I  not  seen  Miss  Mitford's  Rienzi  advertised 
there.  It  was  the  first  opportunity  I  had  had  of  seeing 
it  played,  and  spite  of  very  indifferent  acting,  I  was  de- 
lighted. The  interest  must  have  been  great,  for  till  the 
curtain  fell,  I  saw  not  one  quarter  of  the  queer  things  around 
me :  then  I  observed  in  the  front  row  of  a  dress-box  a  lady 
performing  the  most  maternal  office  possible;  several 
gentlemen  without  their  coats,  and  a  general  air  of  con- 
tempt for  the  decencies  of  life,  certainly  more  than  usually 
revolting.  .  .  . 

I  visited  all  the  exhibitions  in  New  York.     The  Medici 

of  the  Republic  must  exert  themselves  a  little  more  before 

these  can  become  even   respectable.     The    worst  of   the 

business  is,  that  with  the  exception  of  about  half  a  dozen 

37 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

individuals,  the  good  citizens  are  more  than  contented,  they 
are  delighted. 

The  newspaper  lungs  of  the  Republic  breathe  forth 
praise  and  triumph,  nay,  almost  pant  with  ecstasy  in  speak- 
ing of  their  native  chef  d'oeuvres.  I  should  be  hardly 
believed  were  I  to  relate  the  instances  which  fell  in  my 
way,  of  the  utter  ignorance  respecting  pictures  to  be  found 
among  persons  of  the  first  standing  in  society.  Often 
where  a  liberal  spirit  exists,  and  a  wish  to  patronise  the 
fine  arts  is  expressed,  it  is  joined  to  a  profundity  of  igno- 
rance on  the  subject  almost  inconceivable.  A  doubt  as  to 
the  excellence  of  their  artists  is  very  nervously  received, 
and  one  gentleman,  with  much  civility,  told  me,  that  at 
the  present  era,  all  the  world  were  aware  that  competition 
was  pretty  well  at  an  end  between  our  two  nations,  and 
that  a  little  envy  might  naturally  be  expected  to  mix  with 
the  surprise  with  which  the  mother  country  beheld  the  dis- 
tance at  which  her  colonies  were  leaving  her  behind  them. 

I  must,  however,  do  the  few  artists  with  whom  I  became 
acquainted,  the  justice  to  say,  that  their  own  pretensions 
are  much  more  modest  than  those  of  their  patrons  for  them. 
I  have  heard  several  confess  and  deplore  their  ignorance  of 
drawing,  and  have  repeatedly  remarked  a  sensibility  to  the 
merit  of  European  artists,  though  perhaps  only  known 
by  engravings,  and  a  deference  to  their  authority,  which 
showed  a  genuine  feeling  for  the  art.  In  fact,  I  think  that 
there  is  a  very  considerable  degree  of  natural  talent  for 
painting  in  America,  but  it  has  to  make  its  way  through 
darkness  and  thick  night.  When  an  academy  is  founded, 
their  first  care  is  to  hang  the  walls  of  its  exhibition  room 
with  all  the  unutterable  trash  that  is  offered  to  them.  No 
living  models  are  sought  for ;  no  discipline  as  to  the  manner 
38 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

of  study  is  enforced.  Boys  who  know  no  more  of  human 
form,  than  they  do  of  the  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth,  in  the 
moon,  begin  painting  portraits.  If  some  of  them  would 
only  throw  away  their  palettes  for  a  year,  and  learn  to 
draw ;  if  they  would  attend  anatomical  lectures,  and  take 
notes,  not  in  words,  but  in  forms,  of  joints  and  muscles, 
their  exhibitions  would  soon  cease  to  be  so  utterly  below 
criticism. 
Mrs.  Trollope  in  Domestic  Manners  of  the  Americans 

As  Dickens  saw  the  City  in  1842     "viy        ^i'        -cix 

'T^HERE  lay  stretched  out  before  us,  to  the  right,  con- 
-*-  fused  heaps  of  buildings,  with  here  and  there  a  spire 
or  steeple,  looking  down  upon  the  herd  below;  and  here 
and  there,  again,  a  cloud  of  lazy  smoke;  and  in  the  fore- 
ground a  forest  of  ships'  masts,  cheery  with  flapping  sails 
and  waving  flags.  Crossing  from  among  them  to  the 
opposite  shore,  were  steam  ferry-boats  laden  with  people, 
coaches,  horses,  waggons,  baskets,  boxes:  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  by  other  ferry-boats:  all  travelling  to  and  fro: 
and  never  idle.  Stately  among  these  restless  Insects,  were 
two  or  three  large  ships,  moving  with  slow  majestic  pace, 
as  creatures  of  a  prouder  kind,  disdainful  of  their  puny 
journeys,  and  making  for  the  broad  sea.  Beyond,  were 
shining  heights,  and  islands  in  the  glancing  river,  and  a 
distance  scarcely  less  blue  and  bright  than  the  sky  it 
seemed  to  meet.  The  city's  hum  and  buzz,  the  clinking 
of  capstans,  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the 
clattering  of  wheels,  tingled  in  the  listening  ear.  All  of 
which  life  and  stir,  coming  across  the  stirring  water, 
caught  new  life  and  animation  from  its  free  companion- 
ship; and,  sympathising  with  its  buoyant  spirits,  glistened 
39 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

as  it  seemed  in  sport  upon  its  surface,  and  hemmed  the 
vessel  around,  and  plashed  the  water  high  about  her  sides, 
and,  floating  her  gallantly  into  the  dock,  flew  off  again  to 
welcome  other  comers,  and  speed  before  them  to  the  busy 
Port. 

The  great  promenade  and  thoroughfare,  as  most  people 
know,  is  Broadway;  a  wide  and  bustling  street,  which, 
from  the  Battery  Gardens  to  its  opposite  termination  in 
a  country  road,  may  be  four  miles  long.  Shall  we  sit  down 
in  an  upper  floor  of  the  Carlton  House  Hotel  (situated 
in  the  best  part  of  this  main  artery  of  New  York),  and  when 
we  are  tired  of  looking  down  upon  the  life  below,  sally 
forth  arm-in-arm,   and  mingle  with  the  stream?  .  .  . 

Warm  weather!  The  sun  strikes  upon  our  heads  at 
this  open  window,  as  though  its  rays  were  concentrated 
through  a  burning  glass;  but  the  day  is  in  its  zenith,  and 
the  season  an  unusual  one.  Was  there  ever  such  a  sunny 
street  as  this  Broadway !  The  pavement  stones  are  polished 
with  the  tread  of  feet  until  they  shine  again ;  the  red  bricks 
of  the  houses  might  be  yet  in  the  dry,  hot  kilns;  and  the 
roofs  of  those  omnibuses  look  as  though,  if  water  were 
poured  on  them,  they  would  hiss  and  smoke,  and  smell 
like  half -quenched  fires.  No  stint  of  omnibuses  here ! 
Half-a-dozen  have  gone  by  within  as  many  minutes. 
Plenty  of  hackney  cabs  and  coaches  too;  gigs,  phaetons, 
large-wheeled  tilburies,  and  private  carriages  rather  of 
a  clumsy  make,  and  not  very  different  from  the  public 
vehicles,  but  built  for  the  heavy  roads  beyond  the  city 
pavement.  Negro  coachmen  and  white;  in  straw  hats, 
black  hats,  white  hats,  glazed  caps,  fur  caps;  in  coats  of 
drab,  black,  brown,  green,  blue,  nankeen,  striped  jean  and 
linen;  and  there,  in  that  one  instance  (look  while  it  passes, 
40 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

or  it  will  be  too  late),  in  suits  of  livery.  Some  southern  re- 
publican that,  who  puts  his  blacks  in  uniform,  and  swells 
with  Sultan  pomp  and  power.  Yonder,  where  that  phaeton 
with  the  well-clipped  pair  of  grays  has  stopped  —  standing 
at  their  heads  now  —  is  a  Yorkshire  groom,  who  has  not 
been  very  long  in  these  parts,  and  looks  sorrowfully  round 
for  a  companion  pair  of  top-boots,  which  he  may  traverse 
the  city  half  a  year  without  meeting.  Heaven  save  the 
ladies,  how  they  dress!  We  have  seen  more  colours  in 
these  ten  minutes,  than  we  should  have  seen  elsewhere, 
in  as  many  days.  What  various  parasols !  what  rainbow 
silks  and  satins !  what  pinking  of  thin  stocking,  and  pinch- 
ing of  thin  shoes,  and  fluttering  of  ribbons  and  silk  tassels, 
and  display  of  rich  cloaks  with  gaudy  hooks  and  linings ! 
The  young  gentlemen  are  fond,  you  see,  of  turning  down 
their  shirt-collars  and  cultivating  their  whiskers,  especially 
under  the  chin;  but  they  cannot  approach  the  ladies  in 
their  dress  or  bearing,  being  to  say  the  truth,  humanity 
of  quite  another  sort.  Byrons  of  the  desk  and  counter, 
pass  on,  and  let  us  see  what  kind  of  men  those  are  behind 
ye:  those  two  labourers  in  holiday  clothes,  of  whom  one 
carries  in  his  hand  a  crumpled  scrap  of  paper  from  which 
he  tries  to  spell  out  a  hard  name,  while  the  other  looks  about 
for  it  on  all  the  doors  and  windows.  .  .  . 

This  narrow  thoroughfare,  baking  and  blistering  in 
the  sun,  is  Wall  Street :  the  Stock  E.xchange  and  Lombard 
Street  of  New  York.  Many  a  rapid  fortune  has  been 
made  in  this  street,  and  many  a  no  less  rapid  ruin.  Some 
of  these  very  merchants  whom  you  see  hanging  about 
here  now,  have  locked  up  money  in  their  strong-bo.xes,  like 
the  man  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  opening  them  again, 
have  found  but  withered  leaves.  Below,  here  by  the  water- 
41 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

side,  where  the  bowsprits  of  ships  stretch  across  the  foot- 
way, and  almost  thrust  themselves  into  the  windows,  lie 
the  noble  American  vessels  which  have  made  their  Packet 
Service  the  finest  in  the  world.  They  have  brought  hither 
the  foreigners  who  abound  in  all  streets :  not  perhaps,  that 
there  are  more  here,  than  in  other  commercial  cities;  but 
elsewhere,  they  have  particular  haunts,  and  you  must  find 
them  out;    here,  they  pervade  the  town.  .  .  . 

Charles  Dickens  in  American  Notes 

The  March  of  the  Seventh  Regiment  down  Broadway, 
1861       '^^^        '<i>'        ^^        ^^li*-        "^^        •'v> 

TT  was  worth  a  life  that  march.  Only  one  who  passed,  as 
-^  we  did,  through  that  tempest  of  cheers,  two  miles  long 
can  know  the  terrible  enthusiasm  of  the  occasion.  I  could 
hardly  hear  the  rattle  of  our  own  gun-carriages,  and  only 
once  or  twice  the  music  of  our  band  came  to  me  muffled 
and  quelled  by  the  uproar.  We  knew  now  if  we  had  not 
before  divined  it,  that  our  great  city  was  with  us  as  one 
man,  utterly  united  in  the  great  cause  we  were  marching 
to  sustain. 

This  grand  fact  I  learned  by  two  senses.  If  hundreds 
of  thousands  roared  it  in  my  ears,  thousands  slapped  it 
into  my  back.  My  fellow  citizens  smote  me  on  the  knap- 
sack, as  I  went  by  at  the  gun -rope,  and  encouraged  me 
each  in  his  own  dialect.  "Bully  for  you !"  alternated  with 
benedictions,  in  the  proportion  of  two  bullies  to  one  blessing. 

I  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to  receive  more  substantial 
tokens  of  sympathy.  But  there  were  parting  gifts  showered 
on  the  regiment  enough  to  establish  a  variety-shop.  Hand- 
kerchiefs, of  course,  came  floating  down  upon  us  from  the 
windows,  like  a  snow.  Pretty  little  gloves  pelted  us  with 
42 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

lovetaps.  The  sterner  sex  forced  upon  us  pocket-knives 
new  and  jagged,  combs,  soap,  slippers,  boxes  of  matches, 
cigars  by  the  dozen  and  the  hundred,  pipes  to  smoke  shag 
and  pipes  to  smoke  Latakia,  fruit,  eggs  and  sandwiches. 
One  fellow  got  a  new  purse  with  ten  bright  quarter  eagles. 
At  the  corner  of  Grand  Street  or  thereabouts  a  "bhoy" 
in  red  flannel  shirt  and  black  dress  pantaloons,  leaning 
back  against  the  crowd  with  Herculean  shoulders,  called 
me,  —  "Saay,  bully!  take  my  dorg!  he's  one  of  the  kind 
that  holds  till  he  draps."  This  gentleman,  with  his  animal, 
was  instantly  shoved  back  by  the  police,  and  the  Seventh 
lost  the  "dorg." 

These  were  the  comic  incidents  of  the  march,  but  under- 
lying all  was  the  tragic  sentiment  that  we  might  have  tragic 
work  presently  to  do.  The  news  of  the  rascal  attack  in 
Baltimore  on  the  Massachusetts  Sixth  had  just  come  in. 
Ours  might  be  the  same  chance.  If  there  were  any  of  us 
not  in  earnest  before  the  story  of  the  day  would  steady  us. 
So  we  said  good  bye  to  Broadway,  moved  down  Cortlandt 
Street  under  a  bower  of  flags,  and  at  half -past  six  shoved 
off  in  the  ferry-boat. 

Theodore  Winthrop  in 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  June,  1861 

The  Great  Panic  of  1873     •<;>        ^v>        -«:iK        ";>>. 

/^NE  rainy  day  in  this  year  found  Jacob  Dolph  in  Wall 
^^  Street.  Although  he  himself  did  not  think  so,  he 
was  an  old  man  to  others,  and  kindly  hands,  such  as  were 
to  be  found  even  in  that  infuriate  crowd,  had  helped  him  up 
the  marble  steps  of  the  Sub-Treasury  and  had  given  him 
lodgment  on  one  of  the  great  blocks  of  marble  that  dominate 
the  street.  From  where  he  stood  he  could  see  Wall  Street, 
43 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

east  and  west,  and  the  broad  plaza  of  Broad  Street  to  the 
south,  filled  with  a  compact  mass  of  men,  half  hidden 
by  a  myriad  of  umbrellas,  rain-soaked,  black,  glinting  in 
the  dim  light.  So  might  a  Roman  legion  have  looked, 
when  each  man  raised  his  targum  above  his  head  and  came 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  his  neighbor  for  the  assault. 

There  was  a  confused,  ant-like  movement  in  the  vast 
crowd,  and  a  dull  murmur  came  from  it,  rising,  in  places, 
into  excited  shouts.  Here  and  there  the  fringe  of  the  mass 
swelled  up  and  swept  against  the  steps  of  some  building, 
forcing,  or  trying  to  force,  an  entry.  Sometimes  a  narrow 
stream  of  men  trickled  into  the  half-open  doorway;  some- 
times the  great  portals  closed,  and  then  there  was  a  mad 
outcry  and  a  low  groan,  and  the  foremost  on  the  steps 
suddenly  turned  back,  and  in  some  strange  way  slipped 
through  the  throng  and  sped  in  all  directions  to  bear  to 
hushed  or  clamorous  offices  the  news  that  this  house  or 
that  bank  had  "suspended  payment."  "Busted,"  the 
panting  messengers  said  to  white-faced  merchants;  and 
in  the  slang  of  the  street  was  conveyed  the  message  of  doom. 
The  great  panic  of  1873  ^^.s  upon  the  town  —  the  outcome 
of  long  years  of  unwarranted  self-confidence,  of  selfish  ex- 
travagance, of  conscienceless  speculation  —  and,  as  hour 
after  hour  passed  by,  fortunes  were  lost  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  and  the  bread  was  taken  out  of  the  mouths  of 
the  helpless. 

After  Jacob  Dolph  had  stood  for  some  time,  looking 
down  upon  the  tossing  sea  of  black  umbrellas,  he  saw 
a  narrow  lane  made  through  the  crowd  in  the  wake  of 
a  little  party  of  clerks  and  porters,  bearing  aid  perhaps  to 
some  stricken  bank.  Slipping  down,  he  followed  close 
behind  them.  Perhaps  the  jostling  hundreds  on  the  side- 
44 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

walk  were  gentle  with  him,  seeing  that  he  was  an  old  man; 
perhaps  the  strength  of  excitement  nerved  him,  for  he  made 
his  way  down  the  street  to  the  flight  of  steps  leading  to 
the  door  of  a  tall  white  building,  and  he  crowded  himself  up 
among  the  pack  that  was  striving  to  enter.  He  had  even 
got  so  far  that  he  could  see  the  line  pouring  in  above  his 
head,  when  there  was  a  sudden  cessation  of  motion  in 
the  press,  and  one  leaf  of  the  outer  iron  doors  swung  for- 
ward, meeting  the  other,  already  closed  to  bar  the  crush, 
and  two  green -painted  panels  stood,  impassable,  between 
him  and  the  last  of  the  Dolph  fortune. 

One  howl  and  roar,  and  the  crowd  turned  back  on  itself, 
and  swept  him  with  it.  In  five  minutes  a  thousand  offices 
knew  of  the  greatest  failure  of  the  day;  and  Jacob  Dolph 
was  leaning  —  weak,  gasping,  dazed  —  against  the  side  wall 
of  a  hallway  in  William  Street,  with  two  stray  office-boys 
staring  at  him  out  of  their  small,  round,  unsympathetic  eyes. 
H.  C.  BuNNER  in  The  Story  of  a  New  York  House 
Copyright,  1887,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


The  Two  Cities        -;:>        <^        <:>        ^li.        ^q> 

^WAS  dusk,  and  from  my  window 
Upon  the  streets  below 
I  saw  the  people  passing, 
Like  shadows,  to  and  fro; 


'^^^ 


And  faintly,  very  faintly, 

I  heard  the  ceasing  din; 
And,  like  the  dusk  without  me, 

There  was  a  dusk  within. 

And  thoughts,  with  eager  footsteps, 

Dim  thoughts  of  joy  and  pain, 

4S 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Filled  the  streets  and  b)rways  of 
The  City  in  my  brain. 

A  passing  light,  and  holy, 

Like  that  which  softly  falls 
Through  open  gates  in  cloudlets 

Upon  cathedral  walls, 

Fell  upon  the  towers  of 

The  City  in  my  mind; 
My  inward  sight  grew  clearer, 

My  outward  vision  blind. 

Forgotten  was  the  window, 
There  seemed  no  street  below; 

I  did  not  see  them  passing, 
The  shadows,  to  and  fro. 

I  was  between  Two  Cities 

In  which  my  spirit  dwells; 
And  I  could  hear  the  chimings 

Of  two  sad  sets  of  bells. 

Without,  the  holy  Trinity's; 

And  deep  within  my  soul 
My  heart  was  throbbing  like  a  bell 

When  it  has  ceased  to  toll. 

T.  B.  Aldrich,  1854 

The  Aquarium  and  the  Docks  <:>  ^v^-  -"^^^ 
/^LD  CASTLE  GARDEN  makes  a  fairly  decent  build- 
^-^  ing  for  an  aquarium,  and  besides  it  is  isolated  in  Battery 
Park  and  no  one  is  crying  for  the  land  it  occupies.  Some 
associations  and  traditions  cling  about  it  and  lend  a  scrap 
46 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

of  romance  to  it.  It  started  into  life  in  1811  as  Fort 
Clinton  and  was  then  situated  on  a  tiny  island  lying  off 
Battery  Park.  In  1822,  or  thereabouts,  it  ceased  to  be 
a  fort  and  was  turned  into  a  place  of  amusement,  where 
Jenny  Lind  first  sang  when  she  came  to  America,  and 
Lafayette  and  Kossuth  were  publicly  received  and  wel- 
comed. In  a  few  years  the  playhouse  had  turned  into 
a  station  for  the  reception  of  immigrants  from  the  Old 
World,  and  in  1896  it  was  fitted  up  as  an  aquarium.  It 
now  houses  the  finest  collection  of  fishes  in  the  world,  but 
it  has  almost  completely  lost  its  old  character.  Instead 
of  covering  a  tiny  island  it  rests  bedded  in  the  stone  slabs 
of  Battery  Park  and  looks  somewhat  like  a  half-sunken 
gas  tank.  Sentiment  may  cling  about  it,  and  the  folk  with 
neither  New  York  ancestry  nor  history  may  reverence  it 
because  it  is  so  "very  old";  but  in  reahty  it  is  sad  rubbish 
and  has  little  place  in  the  new  city.  .  .  . 

The  early  gathering  place  was  no  doubt  the  lower  end 
of  the  East  River.  The  Battery  (which,  by  the  way,  never 
battered  anything,  at  any  time)  was  the  first  landing-place 
of  the  Dutch,  and  it  was  the  region  about  South  Ferry  that 
afterward  became  an  anchorage  for  their  flat-bottomed, 
high-pooped  ships.  After  the  Revolution  the  large  sailing 
craft  that  came  into  the  harbor  required  deeper  water  to 
make  landings;  so  the  shallows  were  filled  in  from  Front 
Street,  the  docks  were  pushed  out  into  the  stream,  and 
South  Street  came  into  existence.  In  very  recent  years  the 
docks  have  been  extended  still  farther,  and  the  shipping 
ofl&ces  and  storage  houses  along  South  Street  are  now  some 
distance  back  from  the  pier  heads.  Some  of  the  old 
buildings  with  new  fronts  are  still  standing;  and,  even 
to-day,  there  are  huge  schooners  and  square-rigged  ships 
47 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

lying  at  the  piers  with  bowsprits  reaching  over  into  the 
street.  Some  reminders  of  the  days  of  clipper  ships  and 
the  China  trade  linger,  but  are  gradually  being  elbowed 
out  of  existence  by  newer  enterprises. 

The  East  River  front  of  Manhattan  is  now  a  strange 
conglomeration  of  docks,  trucks,  shops,  saloons,  and  ware- 
houses. Many  commercial  interests  are  centered  there, 
with  many  people  and  much  activity.  Everything  is 
moving  or  being  moved.  At  Coenties  Slip,  as  one  comes 
around  from  South  Ferry,  the  activity  is  not  at  once  ap- 
parent. There  is  a  little  park  with  bushes  and  trees 
(Jeannette  Park)  near  by,  which  is  usually  well  patronized 
by  the  unemployed ;  and  across  the  street  from  it  there  are 
scores  of  canal-boats  tied  together  in  the  dock,  that  seem 
deserted  and  decadent.  But  a  few  steps  farther  on  brings 
a  change.  Long  piers  run  out  into  the  river  and  brown- 
red  sheds  are  alive  with  milling  men  and  pulling  horses. 
Steamers  from  Spain,  Porto  Rico,  Havana,  Galveston, 
ships  from  many  southern  ports,  are  unloading  or  taking 
on  cargo.  The  street  is  a  tangle  of  trucks,  the  sidewalk 
a  turmoil  of  people,  the  shops  a  bustle  of  business.  Many 
of  the  old  buildings  are  occupied  as  shipping  offices,  store- 
houses, or  ship  chandleries.  Anything  needed  on  ship- 
board can  be  bought  in  such  places  —  canvas,  cordage, 
blocks,  packing,  pipes,  tubes,  oils,  paints,  lanterns,  com- 
passes, bells,  swords,  guns.  Food  and  clothing  supplies 
are  near  at  hand ;  and  the  saloon  along  South  Street,  with 
its  modicum  of  cheer,  is  never  "hull  down"  on  the  horizon. 
When  Jack  or  his  captain  comes  ashore,  there  are  plenty 
of  opportunities  offered  him  to  get  rid  of  his  money  before 
he  reaches  the  Bowery. 

As  one  moves  toward  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  the  interests 
48 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

become  more  varied.  The  different  slips  widen  out  to  the 
docks  and  furnish  room  for  many  warehouses  and  shops 
in  low  brick  buildings,  some  of  them  with  gam-breled 
roofs  and  dormer  windows.  The  docks  are  piled  high 
with  odd  looking  boxes,  with  green  and  blue  barrels; 
schooners  and  ships  are  anchored  beside  car-floats  loaded 
with  yellow  freight-cars;  ferry-houses  are  near  by  from 
which  bright-colored  boats  are  coming  and  going;  tugs 
are  pushing  and  hauling  at  tows;  steamers  rush  by  with 
a  splash  and  a  swash.  From  the  piers,  looking  up  and 
over  the  tangle  of  trucks,  perhaps  the  stranger  catches  a 
glimpse  of  the  Broadway  sky-scrapers,  resting  serenely  in 
the  far  upper  air  like  a  ridge  of  snow  mountains,  quite 
unaffected  by  the  noisy  worry  of  the  water  front.  How 
stupendous  in  size,  how  superb  in  light  and  air  they  seem 
by  comparison  with  the  junk  shops  and  the  dock  sheds! 
Perhaps  he  glances  around  to  the  east,  and  there  sees  the 
swooping  span  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  —  still  another 
contrast  between  the  new  and  the  old.  Possibly  later  on 
he  figures  it  out  quietly  by  himself  that  the  dirty  docks  and 
the  greasy  ships  and  the  noisy  trucks  are  after  all  not  to  be 
despised,  for  they  made  possible  the  beautiful  bridge  and 
paid  for  the  immaculate-looking  sky-scrapers.  Com- 
merce foots  the  bill,  abuse  it  as  we  may. 

South  Street  runs  on  under  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  past 
Fulton  Market  with  its  fish  stalls  and  tumble-down  shops; 
past  Peck  Slip  with  its  old  houses;  past  Providence  and 
New  Haven  steamers,  the  Manhattan  Bridge,  the  little 
long  park  at  Rutgers  Slip;  past  warehouses,  warehouses, 
warehouses.  Scows  are  being  filled  with  city  refuse,  cars 
are  being  unloaded  with  merchandise  at  the  docks,  factories 
and  machine-shops  are  cropping  out  along  the  way,  gas- 
E  49 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

houses  and  lumber-yards  begin  to  bulk  large.  Right  in 
the  midst  of  this  region  (formerly  a  haunt  of  thieves)  comes 
another  surprise.  This  is  Corlear's  Park  with  its  Italian- 
looking  loggia  and  its  eight  acres  sloping  down  to  the  open 
river.  There  are  no  piers  or  sheds  here,  and  the  water 
view  is  unobstructed.  Sound  steamers,  sloops,  schooners, 
lighters,  ferry-boats  slip  past  on  the  tide,  up  and  under  the 
Williamsburgh  Bridge;  and  occasionally  a  motor-boat 
with  its  put-put,  or  some  pleasure  yacht,  careens  and 
pitches  on  its  way.  Off  in  the  background,  across  the 
river,  are  the  battle-ships  that  are  being  repaired  at  the 
Brooklyn  Navy  Yard,  or  the  old  hulks  that  have  had  their 
day  and  are  now  rotting  at  the  dock.  It  is  a  picturesque 
spot  just  here  at  Corlear's  Hook,  where  the  river  turns 
and  where  South  Street  comes  to  an  end. 

The  North  River,  as  the  lower  part  of  the  Hudson  is 
sometimes  called,  was  not  of  much  trade  importance  in  the 
early  days  of  New  York.  There  were  no  docks  along  it 
because  all  the  ships  went  to  South  Street.  Sailing  craft 
came  round  the  Battery  and  went  up  the  Hudson  without 
stopping.  They  were  seen  and  admired  by  the  New 
Yorkers  who  had  residences  on  the  ridge,  for  the  ridge  was 
then  famous  for  the  "view."  So  late  as  1800  old  St. 
Paul's,  Columbia  College,  and  the  Hospital  looked  down 
to  the  river  and  beheld  a  practically  unobstructed  panorama. 
There  was  no  West  Street  then. 

Before  that  time  the  water  front  was  even  more  primitive. 
From  Warren  to  Desbrosses  Street  was  the  "bouwerie" 
of  Anneke  Jans,  whose  many  descendants  still  dream  of 
untold  wealth  coming  to  them  when  the  law  finally  gives 
them  their  due.  On  either  side  of  Canal  Street  was  Lis- 
penard's  Meadows,  where  almost  anything  could  be  docked 
SO 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

except  a  ship,  and  where  nothing  was  trucked  except  loads 
of  hay.  Beyond  came  Greenwich  Village  with  no  vast  com- 
mercial interest,  though  ships  sometimes  lay  at  anchor  in 
the  stream  off  from  it.  After  this  the  shore  line  as  far  as 
Spuyten  Duyvil  Creek  was  unbroken  and  untrodden  — 
Fort  Gansevoort,  which  stood  near  the  present  market- 
place, and  Fort  Washington  at  One  Hundred  and  Seventy- 
Fifth  Street,  being  latter-day  works. 

But  a  great  change  has  taken  place  since  the  days  of  the 
Dutch,  or  the  English,  or  even  the  American  occupation. 
Less  than  a  hundred  years  has  transformed  the  North 
River  into  a  water-way  for  the  ships  of  the  world,  the 
meadow  front  is  now  a  broad  street  with  the  unceasing 
reverberation  of  traffic;  and  the  water's  edge,  from  the 
Battery  to  the  Riverside  Park,  is  occupied  by  long  piers 
and  sheds  where  ocean  liners  are  docked  and  unloaded. 
The  ocean  carrying  trade  of  New  York  is  now  located  there. 
Practically  all  the  important  lines  of  passenger  steamers 
have  their  docks  there,  or  across  the  river  at  Hoboken. 

Along  the  Chelsea  region  of  the  North  River,  scattered 
like  the  sky-scrapers  on  Broadway,  are  the  huge  trans- 
atlantic liners  with  sharp  noses  pushing  in  toward  West 
Street.  With  them  and  near  them  are  the  smaller  steamers 
plying  to  Havana,  Mexico,  South  America,  Spain,  Italy, 
Greece;  the  immigrant  steamers  coming  up  from  Naples, 
Palermo,  or  Trieste;  the  coasting  steamers  from  New 
Orleans,  Galveston,  Boston,  Providence;  the  white  river 
steamers  running  to  Troy  and  Albany.  In  the  foreign 
passenger  trade  alone  there  are  some  three  hundred  or 
more  of  these  craft  coming  and  going  to  this  port ;  and  the 
number  of  coasters  that  creep  into  the  harbor  at  odd  times 
and  in  strange  ways  mounts  up  into  the  thousands. 
51 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

The  "tramps,"  fruit  carriers,  cattle  and  tank  steamers 
are  of  all  kinds  and  descriptions,  come  from  all  over  the 
seven  seas  and  beyond,  and  fly  the  flags  of  every  nation 
having  a  merchant  marine.  Besides  these  there  are  ships 
and  sails  of  old-time  merchants,  perhaps,  that  have  no 
regular  sailings,  casual  ships  with  strange  cargoes  that  come 
up  from  the  underworld  of  China  or  Peru  when  they  can, 
and  go  out  again  with  grain,  iron,  or  coal  for  distant  seas 
when  they  must. 

They  make  graceful  combinations  on  the  water,  with 
their  fine  lines  and  colors,  their  smoke  and  steam,  their 
gliding  motion  —  these  ships  and  sails.  In  fact,  the  North 
River,  with  its  fleet  of  big  and  little  craft  and  its  many- 
colored  flags,  funnels,  and  hulls,  makes  a  harbor  view  more 
lively  and  more  imposing  than  Backhuisen  of  Willem  van 
de  Velde  ever  imagined.  Not  the  least  important  values 
in  the  picture  are  the  fore-and-aft  sails  of  the  huge  six  and 
seven  masted  schooners  or  the  square  sails  of  barks  or 
brigs  or  full-rigged  ships.  Even  the  little  spots  of  steam 
and  color  in  tugs,  fire-boats,  car-floats,  yachts,  help  out 
the  picture  by  giving  it  brilliancy.  When  the  red  and  green 
and  olive  ferries,  the  yellow  revenue-cutters,  the  blue  canal- 
boats,  the  white  island-boats,  with  an  occasional  white 
and  buff  war-ship,  are  added  to  the  scene,  and  the  whole 
moving  mass  has  the  towering  lower  city  at  sunset  for  a 
background,  the  color  of  it  becomes  startling,  bewildering, 
quite  dazzling. 

The  piers  on  the  North  River  where  the  big  steamers  are 
warped  in  and  the  little  ones  touch  or  are  unloaded,  are 
at  least  capacious;  and  capacity  is,  after  all,  an  absolute 
necessity.  Huge  cargoes  have  to  be  handled  upon  them 
in  short  spaces  of  time,  and  many  donkey  engines,  derricks, 
52 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

and  hoists,  with  scores  and  scores  of  longshoremen,  are 
in  requisition.  Hand-trucks,  horse-trucks,  auto-trucks, 
rumble  here  and  there  with  boxes,  bales,  and  barrels  con- 
taining goods  from  everywhere  —  bananas  from  Jamaica, 
coffee  from  Mexico,  tea  from  China,  wine  from  France, 
macaroni  from  Italy,  spices  from  the  Indies,  sugar  from 
Cuba,  woods  from  Brazil,  pulp  from  Norway,  cloths  from 
England,  cutlery  from  Germany.  This  freight  handling 
is  always  more  or  less  complicated,  because  the  docks  are 
the  distributing  places  where  goods  are  sorted  over  and  re- 
shipped  to  different  points  throughout  the  country.  More- 
over, for  every  cargo  coming  in  there  is  perhaps  a  larger 
cargo  going  out.  Silks  and  works  of  art  may  be  arriving 
at  one  side  of  the  pier;  and  beef,  machinery,  shoes  be 
departing  by  the  other  side.  Add  to  this  foreign  trade  the 
domestic  trade  by  river,  sound,  and  shore,  by  railway  and 
tramway;  add  further  the  passenger  traffic  along  these 
piers  from  ferry  and  steamer,  the  come  and  go  by  car  and 
cab  and  carriage,  and  it  can  easily  be  imagined  that  the 
North  River  piers  and  docks  are  places  of  activity,  centers 
of  energy. 

Though  thousands  are  at  work  about  these  piers  and  are 
continually  crossing  each  other's  path,  there  is  usually 
little  confusion.  Everything  moves  systematically  and 
everyone  understands  the  law  of  traffic  in  the  city,  —  keep 
to  the  right  and  keep  moving.  In  and  out  of  these  pier 
sheds  all  day  (and  sometimes  all  night),  people,  trucks, 
and  carts  move  in  files,  loading  and  unloading,  passing 
and  repassing.  West  Street  receives  them  and  rejects 
them  and  receives  them  again.  The  wide  thoroughfare 
seems  always  in  an  uproar  (except  on  Sunday);  and,  of 
course,  traffic  occasionally  gets  into  a  tangle. 
53 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

This  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  the  mass  and  the  mix  of 
West  Street  are  something  quite  out  of  the  ordinary.  It 
is  facile  princeps  the  street  of  trucks  in  the  whole  city. 
Every  conceivable  kind  of  a  vehicle  —  dray,  express- 
wagon,  mail  wagon,  furniture-van,  butcher-cart,  garbage- 
cart,  beer-skid,  beam-reach  —  is  there.  Sandwiched  in 
among  them  or  dashing  across  them  are  cabs,  carriages, 
hansoms,  automobiles.  Dozens  of  trolley  cars  run  across 
this  street  to  the  different  ferry-houses;  two  car  tracks 
run  the  full  length  of  it,  and  down  these  tracks,  perhaps 
in  the  busiest  portion  of  the  day,  will  come  a  long  train 
of  freight-cars  of  the  New  York  Central  Railroad.  Such 
a  hurly-burly  of  traffic  naturally  produces  the  "jam" 
which  sometimes  requires  the  services  of  the  police  to 
straighten  out. 

The  dock  side  of  West  Street  is  laid  with  asphalt,  but 
the  street  proper,  where  the  trucks  and  trolleys  go,  is  paved 
with  stone  blocks  —  Belgian  blocks.  The  jar  and  jolt, 
the  shock  and  rumble,  arising  from  these  stones  is  not 
pleasant.  No  one  can  hear  himself  talk  during  traffic 
hours,  except  the  cabbies  and  the  truck  drivers.  Even 
they  are  usually  purple  in  the  face  from  trying  to  outroar 
the  rumble,  though  sometimes  they  get  blue  and  green 
with  wrath  when  a  collision  takes  place,  and  they  exchange 
compliments  about  each  other's  driving. 

The  human  voice,  however,  does  not  reach  very  far  in 
West  Street.  A  gong,  a  honk,  or  a  whistle  does  better 
service.  People,  when  they  want  to  chat  quietly,  go  inside. 
The  "inside"  is  a  saloon,  a  restaurant,  a  shop,  or  an  office 
of  the  kind  usually  found  along  the  sea  edge  of  a  city. 
The  North  River  interior  is  newer  than  that  of  the  East 
River,  but  in  character  not  essentially  different.  The 
54 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity- 
shipping  agencies,  supply  stores,  warehouses,  factories, 
mills,  markets,  lumberyards,  with  all  kinds  of  little  dens 
that  sell  drink  or  food  or  clothing  to  the  longshoremen,  are 
also  apparent.  They  are  not  cleanly-looking  or  inviting. 
The  dust  of  the  street  and  the  habits  of  the  crowd  keep 
them  grimy  and  bedraggled-looking.  But  they  are  pictu- 
resque. Even  the  blatant  sign  with  its  high-keyed  coloring 
belongs  here  and  helps  complete  the  picture.  Modern 
commerce  in  West  Street,  with  its  trucks  and  liners  and 
dingy  buildings,  is  just  as  pictorial,  and  far  more  truthful, 
than,  say,  Claude's  shipping  and  seaports,  with  classic 
palaces  and  quays  smothered  in  a  sulphur  sunset.  But 
it  may  be  admitted  that  a  proper  angle  of  vision  and  some 
perspective  are  need-ed  to  see  it  that  way. 

And  around  the  water  front  on  West  Street,  as  well  as 
South  Street,  one  meets  with  a  soiled  and  unkempt-looking 
mass  of  humanity  that  is  quite  as  picturesque  in  its  way 
as  the  streets  or  the  buildings.  It  is  by  no  means  made  up 
of  New  Yorkers  alone.  The  races  of  the  earth  seem  to 
have  sent  representatives  to  it,  each  one  speaking  his  own 
language.  The  waifs  and  strays  that  have  been  jettisoned 
violently  from  foreign  ships,  the  stowaways  from  the  liners, 
the  tramps  from  the  railways,  all  gather  along  the  docks 
looking  for  something  to  turn  up.  Among  them  one  can 
see  blacks  from  Jamaica,  browns  from  India,  yellows  from 
the  Malay  Peninsula,  whites  from  Europe,  and  half-tones 
from  South  America.  It  is  a  colorful  mass  of  humanity 
in  both  face  and  costume,  and  it  has  the  further  artistic 
element  of  repose  about  it.  That  is  to  say,  it  sits  down  in 
the  sunshine  whenever  it  can,  and  works  only  by  fits  and 
starts.  Its  color  is  oftener  seen  in  conjunction  with  some 
convenient  barrel  or  saloon  bar  than  elsewhere.  No  doubt 
55 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

there  are  many  hard-working,  decent  citizens  among  the 
longshoremen,  but  as  a  class  they  are  given  a  rather  bad 
name.  Thieves  and  "dock  rats"  mingle  with  them, 
thugs  like  their  company,  derelicts  from  every  sea,  ne'er- 
do-wells  from  every  shore,  join  them.  The  police  do  not 
hold  them  in  the  highest  esteem. 

Yet  the  longshoremen  are  as  much  a  part  of  New  York  as 
the  ship-owners,  agents,  clerks,  commuters,  and  other 
well-dressed  people  that  pass  along  West  Street  —  an 
interesting  part  at  that.  And  West  Street  is  a  characteristic 
New  York  thoroughfare  furnishing  both  color  and  con- 
trast with  quite  as  much  vividness  as  Broadway.  It  is 
neither  a  soulful  nor  a  sanitary  belt,  nor  is  it  a  place  where 
one  can  rest  body  or  mind;  but  it  has  swirls  of  motion, 
flashes  of  light,  combinations  of  tones  that  are  at  least 
entertaining.     The  place  and  the  people  complement  each 

°*^^'"-         John  C.  Van  Dyke  in  The  New  New  York 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World     ^^^         ^^:>         -"^^ 

"\  1  TARDEN  at  ocean's  gate, 

'  *      Thy  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 
Like  one  the  skies  await 

When  time  shall  be  no  more ! 
What  splendors  crown  thy  brow? 
What  bright  dread  angel  Thou, 
Dazzling  the  waves  before 
Thy  station  great? 

"My  name  is  Liberty! 

From  out  a  mighty  land 
I  face  the  ancient  sea, 

I  lift  to  God  my  hand; 
56 


From   the  Battery  to  Trinity 

By  day  in  Heaven's  light, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night 
At  ocean's  gate  I  stand 
Nor  bend  the  knee. 

"The  dark  Earth  lay  in  sleep, 
Her  children  crouched  forlorn, 

Ere  on  the  western  steep 
I  sprang  to  height,  reborn: 

Then  what  a  joyous  shout 

The  quickened  lands  gave  out, 
And  all  the  choir  of  morn 
Sang  anthems  deep. 

"Beneath  your  firmament, 
The  New  World  to  the  Old 

My  sword  and  summons  sent, 
My  azure  flag  unrolled: 

The  Old  World's  hands  renew 

The  strength:   the  form  ye  view 
Came  from  a  living  mould 
In  glory  blent. 

"O  ye,  whose  broken  spars 
Tell  of  the  storms  ye  met, 

Enter !  fear  not  the  bars 
Across  your  pathway  set: 

Enter  at  Freedom's  porch, 

For  you  I  lift  my  torch, 
For  you  my  coronet 
Is  rayed  with  stars. 

"But  ye  that  hither  draw 
To  desecrate  my  fee, 
57 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York. 

Nor  yet  have  held  in  awe 
The  justice  that  makes  free,  — 

Avaunt,  ye  darkling  brood ! 

By  Right  my  house  hath  stood: 
My  name  is  Liberty, 
My  throne  is  Law." 

O  wonderful  and  bright, 

Immortal  Freedom,  hail! 
Front,  in  thy  fiery  might. 

The  midnight  and  the  gale: 
Undaunted  on  this  base 
Guard  well  thy  dwelling-place: 
Till  the  last  sun  grow  pale 
Let  there  be  Light ! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedbian 
Copyright,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &*  Co. 

From  the  Deck  of  the  Cunarder      ^v>        '<Cy        -cy 

"PAST  the  Hook  the  Campania  glided,  and  then 
-*-  turned  sharp  to  starboard  into  the  noble  expanse  of 
New  York  Bay.  The  great  ship  crept  deviously  along 
the  deep-water  channel,  but  over  the  wide  sheet  of  scarcely 
rippled  water  tiny  launches  and  steam  yachts  scudded 
round  and  round  us,  as  if  we  were  a  ten-knot  tramp  steamer 
instead  of  one  of  the  fastest  couriers  of  the  Altantic.  As 
early  as  this  much  was  unfamiliar  to  the  English  eye.  The 
coasting  schooners,  flapping  lazily  in  the  vain  expectation 
of  a  wind,  were  all  three-masted;  the  ferry-boats  and 
harbor-service  steamers  were  built  high  up  out  of  the  water 
with  large  deck-houses,  out  of  which  protruded  the  engines, 
seesawing  up  and  down. 

58 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

The  great  cities  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn  began  to 
outline  themselves  against  the  clear  sky.  As  you  enter 
London  from  the  Thames,  you  see  little  but  a  few  ghost- 
like spires,  glimmering  in  a  vast  canopy  of  smoke.  New 
York  and  Brooklyn  stand  out  clear  and  smokeless  against 
the  blue  of  the  heavens.  The  two  cities  are  profiled  along 
the  shores  of  the  bay  and  the  Hudson  River,  and  a  strange, 
jagged  profile  it  is.  Brooklyn  combines  into  a  fairly  even 
mass  of  buildings,  half  yellow-gray,  half  chocolate,  with 
a  fringe  of  masts  along  the  water.  Then  the  heap  of 
buildings  slowly  parts  asunder  in  the  middle;  you  see  the 
opening  of  the  East  River,  the  frontier  of  the  two  cities, 
and  the  slim  lines  of  the  Suspension  Bridge.  But  New 
York  combines  into  no  color  and  no  sky-line.  Here  is 
a  red  mass  of  brick,  there  a  gray  spire,  there  a  bright  white 
pile  of  building  —  twenty  stories  of  serried  windows  — 
there  again  a  gilded  dome.  Gradually  they  disengage 
themselves  as  you  pass  up  the  river  in  a  line  apparently 
endless.  The  rest  of  the  city  lies  huddled  beneath  them  — 
these  buildings,  too,  many  colored,  all  uneven,  each  one 
seemingly  struggling  to  shoot  up  alongside  of  the  giants 
at  its  side.  That  is  the  first  impression  of  New  York,  if 
impression  it  can  be  called.  The  truth  is  that  New  York 
yields  no  impression;  the  big  buildings  and  the  little 
buildings  will  not  come  into  the  same  view.  It  dazzles, 
and  it  astonishes,  but  it  does  not  make  a  picture. 

G.  W.  Steevens  in  The  Land  of  the  Dollar 

Ellis  Island  ''^:i>'        ^^li^        ^Ci^        -^^        ^i,-        -oy 

HTHE    gay  spirits   soon   flag   when    land   is   heralded; 

-*-    for  Ellis  Island  is  ahead,  with  its  uncertainties,  and 

the  men  and  women  who  were  the  merriest   and   who 

59 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

most  often  went  to  the  bar,  thus  trying  to  forget,  now 
are  sober,  and  reflect.  The  troubled  ones  are  usually 
marked  by  their  restless  walk  and  by  their  eagerness  to 
seek  the  confidences  of  those  who  have  tested  the  temper 
of  the  law  in  this  unknown  Eldorado.  .  .  . 

At  last  the  great  heart  of  the  ship  has  ceased  its  mighty 
throbbing,  and  but  a  gentle  tremor  tells  that  its  life  has  not 
all  been  spent  in  the  battle  with  wind  and  waves.  The 
waters  are  of  a  quieter  color,  and  over  them  hovers  the 
morning  mist.  The  silence  of  the  early  dawn  is  broken 
only  by  the  sound  of  deep-chested  ferry-boats  which  pass 
into  the  mist  and  out  of  it,  hke  giant  monsters,  stalking  on 
their  cross  beams  over  the  deep.  The  steerage  is  awake 
after  its  restless  night  and  mutely  awaits  the  disclosures 
of  its  own  and  the  new  world's  secrets.  The  sound  of 
a  booming  gun  is  carried  across  the  hidden  space,  and 
faint  touches  of  flame  struggling  through  the  gray,  are  the 
sun's  answer  to  the  salute  from  Governor's  Island.  The 
morning  breeze,  like  a  "Dancing  Psaltress,"  moves  gently 
over  the  glassy  surface  of  the  water,  lifts  the  fog  higher  and 
higher,  tearing  it  into  a  thousand  fleecy  shreds,  and  the 
far  things  have  come  near  and  the  hidden  things  have  been 
revealed.  The  sky  line  straight  ahead,  assaulted  by  a 
thousand  towering  shafts,  looking  like  a  challenge  to  the 
strong,  and  a  warning  to  the  weak,  makes  all  of  us  tremble 
from  an  unknown  fear. 

The  steerage  is  still  mute ;  it  looks  to  the  left  at  the  pop- 
ulous shore,  to  the  right  at  the  green  stretches  of  Long 
Island,  and  again  straight  ahead  at  the  mighty  city.  Slowly 
the  ship  glides  into  the  harbor,  and  when  it  passes  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Statue  of  Liberty  the  silence  is  broken  and 
a  thousand  hands  are  outstretched  in  greeting  to  this 
60 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

new  divinity  into  whose  keeping  they  now  entrust  them- 
selves. 

Some  day  a  great  poet  will  arise  among  us,  who,  catching 
the  inspiration  of  that  moment,  will  be  able  to  put  into 
words  these  surging  emotions;  who  will  be  great  enough 
to  feel  beating  against  his  own  soul  and  give  utterance  to, 
the  thousand  varying  notes  which  are  felt  and  never 
sounded.   .  .  . 

He  who  thinks  that  these  people  scent  but  the  dollars 
which  lie  in  our  treasury,  is  mightily  mistaken,  and  he  who 
says  that  they  come  without  ideals  has  no  knowledge  of 
the  children  of  men.  .  .  . 

Cabin  and  steerage  passengers  alike  soon  find  the  poetry 
of  the  moment  disturbed ;  for  the  quarantine  and  custom- 
house officials  are  on  board,  driving  away  the  tourist's 
memories  of  the  splendor  of  European  capitals  by  their 
inquisitiveness  as  to  his  purchases.  They  make  him 
solemnly  swear  that  he  is  not  a  smuggler,  and  upon  land- 
ing immediately  proceed  to  prove  that  he  is  one. 

The  steerage  passengers  have  before  them  more  rigid 
examinations  which  may  have  vast  consequences;  so  in 
spite  of  the  joyous  notes  of  the  band,  and  the  glad  greetings 
shouted  to  and  fro,  they  sink  again  into  awe-struck  and 
confused  silence.  When  the  last  cabin  passenger  has  dis- 
appeared from  the  dock,  the  immigrants  with  their  baggage 
are  loaded  into  barges  and  taken  to  Ellis  Island  for  their 
final  examination.  .  .  . 

The  barges  on  which  the  immigrants  are  towed  towards 
the  island  are  of  a  somewhat  antiquated  pattern,  and  if 
I  remember  rightly  have  done  service  in  the  Castle  Garden 
days,  and  before  that  some  of  them  at  least  had  done  full 
service  for  excursion  parties  up  and  down  Long  Island 
6i 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Sound.  The  structure  towards  which  we  sail  and  which 
gradually  rises  from  the  surrounding  sea  is  rather  imposing, 
and  impresses  one  by  its  utilitarian  dignity  and  by  its 
plainly  expressed  official  character. 

With  tickets  fastened  to  our  caps  and  to  the  dresses  of 
the  women,  and  with  our  own  bills  of  lading  in  our  trem- 
bling hands, we  pass  between  rows  of  uniformed  attendants, 
and  under  the  huge  portal  of  the  vast  hall  where  the  final 
judgment  awaits  us.  We  are  cheered  somewhat  by  the 
fact  that  assistance  is  promised  to  most  of  us  by  the  agents 
of  various  National  Immigrant  Societies  who  seem  both 
watchful  and  efficient. 

Mechanically  and  with  quick  movements  we  are  ex- 
amined for  general  physical  defects  and  for  the  dreaded 
trachoma,  an  eye  disease,  the  prevalence  of  which  is  greater 
in  the  imagination  of  some  statisticians  than  it  is  on  board 
immigrant  vessels. 

From  here  we  pass  into  passageways  made  by  iron  rail- 
ings, in  which  only  lately,  through  the  intervention  of 
a  humane  official,  benches  have  been  placed,  upon  which, 
closely  crowded,  we  await  our  passing  before  the  inspectors. 

Already  a  sifting  process  has  taken  place ;  and  children 
who  clung  to  their  mother's  skirts  have  disappeared, 
families  have  been  divided,  and,  those  remaining  intact 
cling  to  each  other  in  a  really  tragic  fear  that  they  may 
share  the  fate  of  those  previously  examined.  .  .  . 

The  decision  one  way  or  the  other  must  be  quickly  made, 
and  the  immigrant  finds  himself  in  a  jail-like  room  often 
without  knowing  just  why.  There  is  not  much  time  for 
explanation.  .  .  . 

The  most  melancholy  of  all  men  are  the  detained  Jews, 
for  they  usually  have  strong  family  ties  which  already  bind 
62 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

them  to  this  new  world,  and  they  chafe  under  the  delay. 
Their  children  or  friends  are  waiting  impatiently,  crowd- 
ing beyond  their  allotted  limit,  trying  the  severely  taxed 
patience  of  the  officials,  asking  useless  questions,  and 
wasting  precious  time  in  waiting ;  for  the  courts  work  their 
allotted  tasks  with  dispatch,  but  with  care  and  dignity; 
and  all  must  wait  in  deep  uncertainty  through  the  long 
vigil  of  a  restless  night  spent  on  the  clean,  but  not  too  com- 
fortable bunks  provided   by  the  government. 

Let  no  one  believe  that  landing  on  the  shores  of  "The 
land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave"  is  a  pleasant 
experience ;  it  is  a  hard,  harsh  fact,  surrounded  by  the  grind- 
ing machinery  of  the  law,  which  sifts,  picks,  and  chooses; 
admitting  the  fit  and  excluding  the  weak  and  helpless. 

Edward  A.  Steiner 
Copyright,  IQ06,  by  Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 

The  Financial  Centre  of  America    -^^^        ^=^        ^^^ 

"TJ^INANCE,  more  perhaps  than  any  other  kind  of 
-■■  business,  draws  to  few  points,  and  New  York,  which 
has  as  little  claim  to  be  social  or  intellectual  as  to  be 
the  political  capital  of  the  country,  is  emphatically  its 
financial  capital.  And  as  the  centre  of  America  is  New 
York,  so  the  centre  of  New  York  is  Wall  Street.  This 
famous  thoroughfare  is  hardly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long, 
a  little  longer  than  Lombard  Street  in  London.  It  con- 
tains the  Sub-Treasury  of  the  United  States  and  the  Stock 
Exchange.  In  it  and  the  three  or  four  streets  that  open 
into  it  are  situated  the  Produce  Exchange,  the  offices  of 
the  great  railways,  and  the  places  of  business  of  the 
financiers  and  stockbrokers,  together  representing  an  ac- 
cumulation of  capital  and  intellect  comparable  to  the 
63 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

capital  and  intellect  of  London,  and  destined  before  many 
years  to  surpass  every  similar  spot  in  either  hemisphere. 
Wall  Street  is  the  great  nerve  centre  of  all  American  busi- 
ness; for  finance  and  transportation,  the  two  determining 
powers  in  business,  have  here  their  headquarters.  It  is 
also  the  financial  barometer  of  the  country,  which  every 
man  engaged  in  large  affairs  must  constantly  consult, 
and  whose  only  fault  is  that  it  is  too  sensitive  to  slight  and 
transient  variations  of  pressure. 

The  share  market  of  New  York,  or  rather  of  the  whole 
Union,  in  "the  Street,"  as  it  is  fondly  named,  is  the  most 
remarkable  sight  in  the  country  after  Niagara  and  the 
Yellowstone  Geysers.  It  is  not  unlike  those  geysers  in 
the  violence  of  its  explosions,  and  in  the  rapid  rise  and 
equally  rapid  subsidence  of  its  active  paroxysms.  And  as 
the  sparkling  column  of  the  geyser  is  girt  about  and  often 
half  concealed  by  volumes  of  steam,  so  are  the  rise  and  fall 
of  stocks  mostly  surrounded  by  mists  and  clouds  of  rumor, 
some  purposely  created,  some  self-generated  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  excitement,  curiosity,  credulity,  and  suspicion 
which  the  denizens  of  Wall  Street  breathe.  Opinions 
change  from  moment  to  moment;  hope  and  fear  are 
equally  vehement  and  equally  irrational;  men  are  con- 
stant only  in  inconstancy,  superstitious  because  they  are 
sceptical,  distrustful  of  patent  probabilities,  and  therefore 
ready  to  trust  their  own  fancies  or  some  unfathered  tale. 
As  the  eagerness  and  passion  of  New  York  leave  European 
stock  markets  far  behind,  for  what  the  Paris  and  London 
exchanges  are  at  rare  moments  Wall  Street  is  for  weeks, 
or  perhaps,  with  a  few  intermissions,  for  months  together, 
so  the  operations  of  Wall  Street  are  vaster,  more  boldly 
conceived,  executed  with  a  steadier  precision,  than  those 
64 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

of  European  speculators.  It  is  not  only  their  bearing  on 
the  prosperity  of  railroads  or  other  great  undertakings 
that  is  eagerly  watched  all  over  the  country,  but  also  their 
personal  and  dramatic  aspects.  The  various  careers  and 
characters  of  the  leading  operators  are  familiar  to  every 
one  vs^ho  reads  a  newspaper;  his  schemes  and  exploits  are 
followed  as  Europe  followed  the  fortunes  of  Prince  Alexan- 
der of  Battenburg  or  General  Boulanger.  A  great  "corner," 
for  instance,  is  one  of  the  exciting  events  of  the  year,  not 
merely  to  those  concerned  with  the  stock  or  species  of 
produce  in  which  it  is  attempted  but  to  the  public  at  large. 
James  Bryce  in  The  American  Commonwealth 

Pan  in  Wall  Street   ^^^        ^=^        ^i'        -"^^        ^v:> 

A.D.  1867 

JUST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 
Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations,  — 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations,  — 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people. 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 
From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple ;  — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain. 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer,  — 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways. 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

F  65 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar: 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

'Twas  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas,  — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times,  —  to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head: 

But  —  hidden  thus  —  there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread. 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes. 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them. 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues. 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound. 
And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted. 

And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 
Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted; 

And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
66 


From  the   Battery  to  Trinity 

Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 
With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list,  — 

A  boxer  Aegon,  rough  and  merry,  — 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng,  — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout. 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper: 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her,  - 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water! 
67 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands,  — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals ! 

So  thought  I,  —  but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"Great  Pan  is  dead  !"  —  and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways :  —  and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 

E.  C.  Stedman 

New  York  in  a  Fog      '"^::i'      ^'^       ^^:>       ^^i**       ^^ 

'  I  "HE  fog  groped  and  felt  its  way  along  the  water  front. 

-*-    Then  it  crept  up  to  the  throat  of  the  city,  like  a  gray 

hand,  and  strangled  Broadway  into  an  ominous  quietness. 

It  tightened  its  grip,  as  the  day  grew  older,  leaving  the 
cross-streets  from  Union  Square  to  the  Battery  clotted  with 
congested  traffic.  It  brought  on  an  untimely  protest  of 
blinking  street-lamps,  as  uncannily  bewildering  as  the  mid- 
day cock-crowing  of  a  solar  eclipse.  It  caused  the  vague 
and  shadowy  walls  of  sky-scrapers  to  blossom  into  countless 
yellow  window  tiers,  as  close-packed  as  the  scales  of  a  snake. 
Bells  sounded  from  gloom-wrapt  shipping  along  the  saw- 
tooth line  of  the  river-slips,  tolling  the  watches  and  falling 
silent  and  tolling  again,  as  they  might  have  tolled  in  mid- 
ocean,  or  on  some  lonely  waterway  that  led  to  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth. 

Now  and  then,  out  of  the  distance,  a  river-ferry  or  a  car- 
68 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

float  tug  could  be  heard  growling  and  whimpering  for  room, 
as  it  wrangled  over  its  right-of-way.  Everything  moved 
slowly  through  the  muffled  streets.  Carriages  crept  across 
the  sepulchral  quietness  with  a  strange  and  uncouth  rever- 
ence, like  tourists  through  a  catacomb.  Surface  cars,  crawl- 
ing funereally  forward,  felt  their  way  with  gong -strokes,  as 
blind  men  feel  their  way  with  sticktaps.  An  occasional 
taxicab,  swinging  tentatively  out  of  a  side-street,  slewed 
and  skidded  in  the  greasy  mud.  Lonely  drivers  watched 
from  their  seats,  watched  like  sea  captains  from  bridge- 
ends  when  ice  has  invaded  their  sea  lanes. 

Under  the  gas-lamps,  dulled  to  a  reddish  yellow,  passed 
a  thin  scattering  of  pedestrians.  A  touch  of  desolation 
clung  about  each  figure  that  groped  its  way  through  the 
short-vistaed  street,  as  though  the  thoroughfare  it  trod  were 
a  lonely  moraine  and  the  figure  itself  the  last  man  that 
walked  a  ruin  world.  It  was  the  worst  fog  that  New  York 
had  known  for  years ;  the  city  lay  under  it  like  a  mummy 
swathed  in  gray. 

Yet  the  gloom  seemed  to  crown  it  with  a  new  wonder, 
to  endow  it  with  a  new  dignity.  That  all  too  shallow 
tongue  of  land  that  is  lipped  by  the  East  and  North  rivers 
took  on  strange  and  undreamt-of  distances.  It  lay  en- 
gulfed in  twilight  mysteries,  enriched  with  unlooked-for 
possibilities.  Its  narrow  acres  of  brick  and  stone  and 
asphalt  became  something  unbounded  and  infinite,  as 
bewildering  and  wide  as  the  open  Atlantic.  It  seemed 
to  harbor  fantastic  potentialities.  It  seemed  to  release 
the  spirit  of  romance,  as  moonlight  unfetters  a  lover's 
lips. 

Yet  Lingg,  the  wireless  operator  of  the  Laminian,  be- 
came more  and  more  alarmed  at  the  opacity  of  this  fog. 
69 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

He  felt,  as  he  burrowed  mole-like  across  the  mist-blanketed 
city,  that  he  had  been  a  fool  to  leave  the  ship  .  .  . 

He  hurried  along  the  fog -wrapt  canons,  still  haunted  by 
the  impression  of  some  unknown  figure  dogging  his  steps. 
He  felt,  as  night  and  the  fog  deepened  together,  that  the 
city  was  nothing  more  than  a  many-channelled  river-bed, 
and  that  he  waded  along  its  bottom,  breathing  a  new  ele- 
ment, too  thick  for  air,  too  etherealised  for  water.  He  saw 
streets  that  were  new  to  him,  streets  where  the  misted 
globes  of  electric  lights  became  an  undulating  double  row 
of  white  tulips.  Then  he  stumbled  into  Broadway.  But 
it  was  a  Broadway  with  the  soft  pedal  on.  Its  roar  of 
sound  was  so  muffled  he  scarcely  knew  it.  Then  he  came 
to  a  square  where  the  scattered  lamp-globes  looked  like 
bubbles  of  gold  caught  in  tree-branches.  Under  these 
tree-branches  he  saw  loungers  on  benches,  mysterious  and 
motionless  figures,  like  broken  rows  of  statuary,  sleeping 
men  in  the  final  and  casual  attitudes  of  death.  Above 
these  figures  he  could  see  wet  maple-leaves,  hanging  as 
still  and  lifeless  as  though  they  had  been  stencilled  from 
sheets  of  green  copper.  His  eyes  fell  on  floating  street- 
signs,  blurs  of  colored  electrics  cut  off  from  the  invisible 
walls  which  backed  them.  He  caught  glimpses  of  the 
softened  bulbs  of  automatic  signs,  like  moving  gold-fish 
seen  through  frosted  glass.  Then  he  saw  more  lights, 
serried  lights,  subdued  into  balloons  of  misty  pearl.  They 
threaded  the  facade  of  some  gigantic  hotel,  like  jewel- 
strings  about  the  throat  of  a  barbaric  woman.  But  he 
could  not  remember  the  place.  And  again  he  floundered 
on  towards  the  water  front,  disquieted  with  vague  and 
foolish  thoughts,  as  much  oppressed  by  the  orderly  streets 
as  though  he  were  escaping  from  some  sea-worn  harbor 
70 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

slum  of  vice  and  outlawry.      He  still  wanted  his  cabin,  as 
a  long-harried  chipmunk  wants  its  tree-hole. 

Arthur  Stringer  in  The  Gun  Runner 
Copyright,  igog,  by  B.  W.  Dodge  &>  Co. 

The  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street  •'^^y        <:y        -"^^ 

pAST  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street 

Swing  two  strong  tides  of  hurrying  feet, 
And  up  and  down  and  all  the  day 
Rises  a  sullen  roar,  to  say 
The  Bowery  has  met  Broadway. 
And  where  the  confluent  current  brawls 
Stands,  fair  and  dear  and  old,  St.  Paul's, 
Through  her  grand  window  looking  down 
Upon  the  fever  of  the  town ; 
Rearing  her  shrine  of  patriot  pride 
Above  that  hungry  human -tide 
Mad  with  the  lust  of  sordid  gain, 
Wild  for  the  things  that  God  holds  vain; 
Blind,  selfish,  cruel  —  Stay  there !  out 
A  man  is  turning  from  the  rout, 
And  stops  to  drop  a  folded  sheet 
In  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street. 

On  goes  he  to  the  money-mart, 
A  broker,  shrewd  and  tricky-smart; 
But  in  the  space  you  saw  him  stand. 
He  reached  and  grasped  a  brother's  hand: 
And  some  poor  bed-rid  wretch  will  find 
Bed-life  a  little  less  unkind 
For  that  man's  stopping.    They  who  pass 
Under  St.  Paul's  broad  roseate  glass 
71 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Have  but  to  reach  their  hands  to  gain 
The  pitiful  world  of  prisoned  pain. 
The  hospital's  poor  captive  lies 
Waiting  the  day  w^ith  weary  eyes, 
Waiting  the  day,  to  hear  again 
News  of  the  outer  world  of  men. 
Brought  to  him  in  a  crumpled  sheet 
From  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street. 

For  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street 

Was  made  because  men's  hearts  must  beat; 

Because  the  humblest  kindly  thought 

May  do  what  wealth  has  never  bought. 

That  journal  in  your  hand  you  hold 

To  you  already  has  grown  old,  — 

Stale,  dull,  a  thing  to  throw  away,  — 

Yet  since  the  earliest  gleam  of  day 

Men  in  a  score  of  hospitals 

Have  lain  and  watched  the  whitewashed  walls; 

Waiting  the  hour  that  brings  more  near 

The  Life  so  infinitely  dear  — 

The  Life  of  trouble,  toil,  and  strife. 

Hard,  if  you  will  —  but  Life,  Life,  Life ! 

Tell  them,  O  friend !  that  life  is  sweet 

Through  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street. 

H.  C.  BUNNER 

Copyright,  i8g6,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

The  Exchanges         ^o        ■'Qy        <:::>        <:^        <:i^ 

'T^IIE  Stock  Exchange  is  the  one    usually   visited   by 

■*-    the    country    cousins   in    Gotham,    who    sometimes 

come  away  with  the  impression   that  they  have  seen  a 

72 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

lunatic  asylum  temporarily  freed  from  the  restraint  of 
the  keepers.  The  method  of  bidding,  with  its  suggestion 
of  insanity  in  the  action,  and  cries  of  the  bidders,  seems 
as  necessary  to  the  Stock  Exchange  as  hammering  and 
noise  to  a  boiler  shop.  It  is  not,  however,  so  hysterical  or 
frenzied  as  it  looks.  Most  of  the  cry  is  physical  and  has 
for  its  aim  the  recognition  of  the  crier  as  a  bidder.  To  those 
in  the  thick  of  the  bidding  it  is  often  as  matter-of-fact  as 
the  loud  announcement  of  the  train  ushers  in  the  railway 
stations,  or  the  street  cry  of  the  newsboys  or  fruit  hawkers. 

Moreover  (to  shatter  another  delusion),  the  operators 
down  below  on  the  floor  are  not  the  Wall  Street  capitalists 
whose  names  are  so  familiar,  and  whose  stock  manipula- 
tions are  read  about  in  newspapers.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  merely  the  executants  of  orders,  called  "floor-brokers." 
Among  them  are  "board  members"  of  large  firms,  who 
are  looking  to  it  that  orders  are  properly  filled;  sub- 
commission  men,  who  work  for  other  brokers  and  take 
a  slice  of  the  commission;  and  "room  traders,"  who  are 
sometimes  used  as  stalking  horses  by  large  firms  to  cover 
up  their  transactions.  They  are  all  either  bulls  or  bears, 
and  are  intent  upon  lifting  up  or  beating  down  the  market, 
as  their  interest  may  lie.  They  make  a  great  noise  and 
transact  a  large  volume  of  business;  but  the  people  for 
whom  they  are  doing  business  do  not  appear  on  the  floor, 
are  not  seen. 

The  Produce  Exchange  on  Beaver  Street  and  Broadway 
does  for  all  manner  of  produce  substantially  what  the 
Stock  Exchange  does  for  stocks.  That  is  to  say,  its  mem- 
bers buy  and  sell,  in  a  "pit,"  or  depressed  ring  in  the  floor, 
wheat,  oats,  barley,  corn,  feed,  flour,  tallow,  oil,  lard, 
turpentine,  resin  —  all  manner  of  general  produce.  There 
73 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

is  also  a  great  deal  of  miscellaneous  and  contingent  business 
transacted  within  the  building.  Sales  of  cargoes,  arrange- 
ments for  shipping,  lighterage,  insurance,  may  be  speedily 
made  and  concluded  without  leaving  the  exchange.  Re- 
ports from  all  sources  are  collected  and  bulletined,  quota- 
tions here  and  abroad  are  given,  prospects  of  growing  crops 
with  daily  and  weekly  receipts  in  New  York,  and  stock  on 
hand  in  London  and  elsewhere  are  announced.  The 
volume  of  business  continues  to  grow  each  year  at  an  as- 
tounding rate.  The  exchange  itself  profits  by  this.  It 
started  in  small  beginnings,  under  the  blue  sky,  on  the  side- 
walk. It  was  not  formally  known  as  the  Produce  Ex- 
change until  1868,  and  it  did  not  move  into  its  present 
massive  building  until  1884.  Since  then  its  membership 
has  increased  to  several  thousands;  and  its  influence  upon 
trade  and  transportation  has  become  most  potent. 

The  Maritime  Exchange  is  closely  connected  with  the 
Produce  Exchange.  Its  business  is  to  promote  the  maritime 
interests  of  the  city;  and  those  who  do  business  on  or  with 
the  sea  —  agents,  shippers,  commission  merchants,  ware- 
housemen, importers,  brokers,  marine  underwriters,  ship- 
chandlers  —  are  eligible  for  membership.  The  exchange 
keeps  records  of  the  arrivals  and  departures  of  ships,  their 
movements  about  the  world,  and  their  sudden  exits  by 
fire  or  storm.  It  also  keeps  tables  of  the  imports  and  ex- 
ports, regulates  and  reports  upon  navigation  and  light- 
houses, and  promotes  favorable  river  and  harbor  legisla- 
tion. The  Customs  House  and  the  Post-Office,  as  well 
as  the  newspapers,  get  much  of  the  news  about  the  come 
and  go  of  shipping  from  this  source. 

Akin  to  these  exchanges  are  others  dealing  with  the 
special  needs  and  wants  of  special  industries.  The  Con- 
74 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

solidated  Stock  and  Petroleum  Exchange,  among  other 
things,  aflfords  every  facility  and  every  information  for  the 
sale  and  shipping  of  petroleum.  Each  year  the  sales  there 
run  up  to  something  over  a  billion  barrels.  The  Cotton 
Exchange  on  Beaver  Street  deals  in  everything  connected 
with  the  cotton  industry  and  the  marketing  of  the  product. 
The  Builders'  Exchange  has  to  do  with  the  buying  and 
selHng  of  all  kinds  of  building  supplies,  such  as  cement, 
brick,  stone,  and  the  like;  while  the  Metal  Exchange  on 
Pearl  Street,  the  Wool  Exchange  on  West  Broadway,  the 
Fruit  Exchange  on  Park  Place,  the  Brewers'  Exchange  on 
East  Fifteenth  Street,  The  Silk  Association,  the  Shoe  and 
Leather  Exchange,  all  serve  a  purpose  in  promoting  business 
in  those  commodities.  Then  there  is  that  old-time  gather- 
ing of  jewelers  on  Maiden  Lane  about  the  Jewelers'  Board 
of  Trade,  with  the  pre-Revolutionary  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce now  on  Liberty  Street,  and  a  Fire  Insurance  Ex- 
change on  Nassau  Street. 

John.  C.  Van  Dyke  in  The  New  New  York 

Old  Trinity  Churchyard      ^^:>        ^r^        -^:>        ^^ 

'  I  "HERE  is  no  pleasanter  spot  in  New  York  than  the 
-^  churchyard  of  old  Trinity  on  a  quiet  Sunday  morn- 
ing in  the  summer.  There  are  flowers  and  grasses, 
the  shade  of  graceful  elms,  fresh  air,  and  the  twittering 
of  birds  —  even  the  oriole  and  the  robin  still  come  back  there 
every  year  in  spite  of  the  aggressive  sparrow  —  and  there 
is  no  end  of  companionship.  It  is  a  companionship  which 
I  like,  because  it  is  open  and  free.  Here  every  man,  woman 
and  child,  except  the  unquiet  prowlers  above  ground, 
presents  to  our  eyes  a  card  of  granite  or  marble,  gravely 
telling  his  or  her  name,  age  and  a  few  other  particulars  set 
75 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

forth,  more  or  less  elaborately  —  a  quaint  custom,  but  not 
a  bad  one  for  the  living  to  adopt,  if  they  would  be  equally 
frank  about  it. 

Even  in  the  days  when  the  present  church  building  was 
new  —  more  than  fifty  years  ago  by  the  calendar  —  I 
found  no  more  pleasant  place  in  which  to  pass  a  half-hour 
as  a  boy.  It  was  a  more  unkempt  place  then  than  now, 
and  bluebirds  and  thrushes  were  more  frequent  visitors. 
I  found  an  endless  pleasure  in  tracing  the  inscriptions  on 
the  tombstones,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I  had  familiar 
acquaintances,  heroes  and  heroines,  in  every  corner.  Huge 
was  my  delight,  too,  when,  with  two  or  three  companions, 
we  could  escape  the  eye  of  old  David  Lyon,  the  sexton,  and 
hie  down  into  the  crypt  beneath  the  chancel.  There  we 
saw  yawning  mouths  of  vaults,  revealing  to  our  exploring 
gaze  bits  of  ancient  coffins  and  forgotten  mortality,  and 
we  poked  about  these  subterranean  corridors  with  dusty 
jackets  and  whispered  words,  finding  its  atmosphere  of 
mould  and  mystery  a  strange  delight.  For  somehow  the 
unknown  sleepers,  they  who  seemed  to  have  no  means  of 
making  themselves  known  —  unless  it  was  through  the 
musty  tomes  of  Trinity's  burial  records  —  took  strongest 
hold  upon  our  sympathies,  to  say  nothing  of  our  curiosity. 

Everybody  who  passes  old  St.  Paul's  can  read  for  him- 
self the  patriotism  of  General  Montgomery,  the  civic 
virtues  of  Thomas  Addis  Emmet  and  the  eminence  of 
Dr.  McNevin,  for  monument  and  shaft  tell  the  story. 
So  all  visitors  to  the  churchyard  of  old  Trinity  easily  learn 
which  are  the  tombstones  of  Alexander  Hamilton,  Captain 
Lawrence,  of  the  Chesapeake,  or  William  Bradford,  the 
first  Colonial  printer,  and  where  rest  the  bones  of  quiet 
Robert  Fulton,  the  inventor,  or  dashing  Phil  Kearney;  but 
76 


From  the  Battery  to  Trinity 

there  is  no  herald  of  the  ordinary  dead  —  of  those  who  were 

simply  upright  men  and  good  women  in  their  day  —  and 

there  could  be  none  of  the  unknown  dead  who  are  said  to 

far  outnumber  the  lucky  minority,  the  front  doors  to  whose 

graves  still  stand  and  yet  preserve  their  door  plate,  though 

the  latch-key  is  gone.  „ 

John  F.  Mines 

In  Old  Trinity  <^        <^        ^^^        •'^^        ^^^ 

A  spare  half-hour  before  closing  time  we  gave  to  the 
■^  ^  Stock  Exchange,  and  it  was  quite  enough,  for  some 
one  was  short  on  something,  and  pandemonium  reigned. 
As  we  stood  on  the  corner  of  Rector  Street  and  Broadway, 
hesitating  whether  to  take  surface  or  elevated  cars,  faint 
strains  of  organ  music  from  Trinity  attracted  us. 

"Service  or  choir  practice;  let  us  go  in  a  few  moments," 
said  Evan,  to  whom  the  organ  is  a  voice  that  never  fails  to 
draw. 

We  took  seats  far  back,  and  lost  ourselves  among  the 
shadows.  A  special  service  was  in  progress,  the  music 
half  Gregorian,  and  the  congregation  was  too  scattered 
to  mar  the  feeling  that  we  had  slipped  suddenly  out  of  the 
material  world.  The  shadows  of  the  sparrows  outside 
flitted  upward  on  the  stained  glass  windows,  until  it  seemed 
as  if  the  great  chords  had  broken  free,  and,  taking  form,  were 
trying  to  escape. 

Now  and  then  the  door  would  open  softly  and  unac- 
customed figures  slip  in  and  linger  in  the  open  space  behind 
the  pews.  Aliens,  newly  landed  and  wandering  about  in 
the  vicinity  of  their  water-front  lodging-houses,  music  and 
a  church  appealed  to  their  loneliness.  Some  stood,  heads 
bowed,  and  some  knelt  in  prayer  and  crossed  themselves  on 

n 


The  Wayfarer  In  New  York 

leaving;  one  woman,  lugging  a  great  bundle  tied  in  a  blue 
cloth,  a  baby  on  her  arm  and  another  clinging  to  her  skirts, 
put  down  her  load,  bedded  the  baby  upon  it,  and  began 
to  tell  her  beads. 

The  service  ended,  and  the  people  scattered,  but  the 
organist  played  on,  and  the  boy  choir  regathered,  but  less 
formally. 

"What  is  it  ?  "  we  asked  of  the  verger,  who  was  preparing 
to  close  the  doors. 

"There  will  be  a  funeral  of  one  of  the  oldest  members  of 
the  congregation  to-morrow,  and  they  are  about  to  go 
through  the  music  of  the  office." 

Suddenly  a  rich  bass  voice,  strong  in  conviction,  trum- 
peted forth  —  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life !" 
And  only  a  stone's  throw  away  jingled  the  money 
market  of  the   western   world.     The   temple 
and  the  table  of  the  money  changers  keep 
step  as  of  old.    Ah,  wonderful  New  York  I 
Mabel  Osgood  Wright  in 
People  of  the  Whirlpool 


78 


n 

WITHIN  HALF  A  MILE   OF   CITY  HALL 


NEW   BUILDINGS 

THE  turrets  leap  higher  and  higher, 
And  the  little  old  homes  go  down; 
The  workmen  pound  on  the  iron  and  steel  — 
The  woodpeckers  of  the  town. 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 
Copyright,  igo8,  by  the  B.  W.  Dodge  Co. 


II 

WITHIN   HALF   A  MILE   OF   CITY  HALL 

New  York's  Greatest  Pageant         ^^^        '"v>        ^v:> 

TT  was  the  civic  procession  in  honor  of  the  adoption  of 
^  the  Federal  Constitution,  of  which  all  similar  celebra- 
tions since  attempted  have  proved  but  feeble  imitations. 

The  morning  of  the  23rd  of  July,  1878,  was  ushered 
in  by  a  federal  salute  of  thirteen  guns  from  the  ship  Hamil- 
ton, moored  at  the  Bowling  Green.  This  was  the  signal 
for  the  procession  to  form.  Having  been  arranged  in 
proper  order,  the  whole  assemblage  was  wheeled  into 
column,  and  marched  down  Broadway  and  Whitehall  to 
Great  Dock  Street;  thence  through  Hanover  Square, 
Great  Queen  and  Chatham  Streets  to  the  Bowery;  and 
thence  to  "Bayard's  Farm,"  where  the  procession  halted 
and  was  again  wheeled  into  line.  The  different  divisions 
of  it  were  conducted  to  the  tents  in  which  tables  had  been 
prepared.  Here  they  were  honored  with  the  company 
of  the  president  and  members  of  the  Continental  Congress, 
then  sitting  in  this  city,  and  others  of  distinction.  .  .  . 

Some  features  of  the  procession,  which  my  memory  re- 
tains, may  prove  sufficiently  interesting  to  reward  your 
patience.  .  .  . 

First,  there  appeared  no  less  renowned  a  personage  than 
Christopher  Columbus,  represented  on  this  occasion  by 
a  certain  Captain  Moore,  who  was  selected  for  the  part 

G  81 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

from  the  striking  resemblance  he  bore  to  the  portraits  of 
the  Great  Navigator.  He  was  followed  by  those  eminent 
experimental  farmers,  Nicolas  Crueger  and  John  Watts: 
the  former  very  skilfully  conducting  a  plough  upon  wheels, 
drawn  by  several  fine  yokes  of  oxen;  the  latter  guiding 
with  equal  adroitness  a  toothless  harrow,  drawn  —  not  the 
teeth,  but  the  harrow  —  by  one  yoke  of  oxen  and  a  pair 
of  horses.  Next  in  my  recollection,  though  not  perhaps 
in  the  order  of  march,  was  borne  on  horseback,  by  Capt. 
Anthony  Walton  White,  a  golden  eagle,  bearing  a  shield 
on  its  breast  emblazoned  with  the  arms  of  the  United  States. 
This  was  the  banner  of  the  Society  of  Cincinnati,  the  mem- 
bers of  which  followed  in  their  well-sewed  Revolutionary 
regimentals. 

Then  came  the  members  of  the  several  professions  and 
trades,  with  their  appropriate  ensigns  and  badges;  the 
workmen  mounted  upon  lofty  and  capacious  stages  erected 
upon  wheel-carriages,  each  drawn  by  several  pairs  of  horses. 
The  men  upon  these  elevated  machines  worked  —  or 
seemed  to  work  —  at  their  respective  trades.  The  Coopers 
were  setting  up  and  hooping  a  huge  cask,  emblematical 
of  the  Constitution.  The  Carpenters  were  in  the  act  of 
erecting  the  eleventh  column,  inscribed  "New  York," 
of  a  pediment  already  supported  by  ten  representing  the 
States  that  had  ratified  the  Constitution,  and  were  at  work 
on  two  others  lying  prostrate,  emblematical  of  the  two 
States  who  hesitated  to  adopt  it.  The  Upholsterers  were 
preparing  the  chair  of  state  for  the  first  President.  The 
Coachmakers  were  building  him  a  superb  chariot.  The 
Ship-Carpenters  were  finishing  models  of  vessels  for  the 
U.  S.  Navy;  the  Blockmakers  were  boring  pumps,  turning 
blocks  and  fitting  sheaves  for  them ;  the  Ropemakers  were 
82 


Within   Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

laying  cables;  the  Blacksmiths  were  forging  anchors;  the 
Sail-makers  and  Riggers  were  at  work  upon  sails  and 
rigging;  the  Mathematical-Instrument-Makers  upon  quad- 
rants and  compasses,  all  for  the  "Federal  Fleet."  The 
Cutlers  were  burnishing  swords,  the  Lacemakers  were 
making  epaulettes  and  the  Tailors  uniforms,  for  both  army 
and  navy  —  so  deeply  at  that  early  day  was  the  public 
mind  impressed  with  the  necessity  of  both  for  the  defense 
of  the  country,  the  assertion  of  her  territorial  and  maritime 
rights;  and  the  maintenance  of  the  national  honor.  The 
Drum-Manufacturers  and  other  Musical-Instrument-Makers 
were  also  employed  with  a  view  to  the  public  service;  while 
the  Printers  were  striking  off  and  distributing  patriotic 
songs,  and  a  programme  of  the  ceremony  which  has  been 
of  material  use  in  refreshing  my  memory  in  regard  to  it. 

The  most  interesting,  as  well  as  the  most  conspicuous 
object  in  the  procession  was  undoubtedly  the  "Federal 
Ship"  —  the  miniature  presentment  of  a  two-and-thirty 
gun  frigate,  about  thirty  feet  keel  and  ten  beam,  with  every- 
thing complete  and  in  proportion  in  her  hull,  rigging,  sails 
and  armament.  She  was  manned  by  about  forty  seamen 
and  marines,  besides  the  usual  complement  of  ofl&cers. 
The  veteran  commander,  James  Nicholson,  of  Revolu- 
tionary memory,  was  her  commander,  and  she  bore  the 
same  broad  pennant  at  the  main  which  had  floated  victori- 
ously over  his  head  upon  the  ocean.  But  although  once 
more  on  board  ship,  the  old  commodore  was  not  exactly 
in  his  element,  as  his  ship  was  navigated  more  by  means 
of  wheels  and  several  pairs  of  stout  horses  than  by  wind 
and  sails.  He  nevertheless  displayed  great  seamanship 
in  her  management.  When  she  had  reached  the  roadstead 
abreast  of  the  encampment,  she  took  in  sail  and  anchored  in 
83 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

close  order  with  the  rest  of  the  procession ;  the  oflficers  off 
duty  going  on  shore  to  dine,  while  ample  messes  were  sent 
to  those  on  board,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  crew. 

At  4  P.M.,  she  again  made  the  signal  for  unmooring,  by 
another  salute  of  thirteen  guns,  and  shortly  after  got  under 
way  with  her  convoy.  The  manner  in  which  she  made  her 
passage  through  the  straits  of  Bayard's  Lane  was  highly 
interesting  and  satisfactory,  being  obliged  to  run  under 
her  fore-tops'l  in  a  squall,  and  afterwards  to  heave  to,  to 
reef  them  all  before  she  ventured  to  set  her  courses  and  bear 
up  for  the  Broadway  channel.  Her  subsequent  manoeuvres 
were  not  unattended  with  peril  —  but  by  the  good  conduct 
of  her  officers  and  men,  and  the  skill  of  Mat  Daniels,  the 
pilot,  she  arrived  in  safety  at  her  former  moorings,  amid 
the  acclamations  of  thousands,  who,  by  repeated  cheers, 
testified  their  approbation  of  the  gallant  old  commodore 
and  his  crew  in  weathering  the  storm  and  bringing  the 
"Federal  Ship"  safely  into  port.  In  the  evening  there  was 
a  general  illumination ;  with  a  display  of  fireworks  in  the 
Bowling  Green,  under  the  direction  of  Colonel  Bauman, 
poet-master  of  the  city,  and  commandant  of  artillery,  whose 
constitutional  irascibility  was  exceedingly  provoked  by 
the  moon,  which  shone  with  pertinacious  brilliance,  as 
if  in  mockery  of  his  feebler  lights. 

William  Alexander  Duer  in 

an  Address  to  the  St.  Nicholas  Society 

Spring  in  Town        ^^:>        ^v>        ^o        <:>        "O 

nPHE  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
-*■    Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth. 
And  June  its  roses;   showers  and  sunshine  bring, 
Slowly,  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  earth; 
84 


Within  Half  a   Mile  of  City   Hall 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 
And  one  by  one  the  singing  birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours. 

Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of  May 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom  — 

And  lo !  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon. 

And  they  who  search  the  untrodden  wood  for  flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 

From  Spring  in  Town  by  William  Cullen  Bryant 

As  a  Young  Reporter  Sees  New  York  •'vi^  ^^^ 
"^\O^VN  along  the  East  River  water  front  the  big, 
^^  brave  ships  from  far-away  foreign  ports  rest  at 
ease,  with  their  bowsprits  slouching  out  half  way  across 
South  Street.  Quaint  figure-heads  are  on  their  bows,  and 
on  their  sterns  names  still  more  quaint  and  full  of  soft 
vowels  which  mean  something  in  some  part  of  the  seven 
seas;  brigs  from  the  West  Indies  and  barks  from  South 
Africa;  Nova  Scotia  schooners  and  full-rigged  clipper 
ships  from  Calcutta  and  from  San  Francisco  by  way  of 
the  Horn. 

Here  the  young  reporter  liked  to  prowl  about  when  out  on 
a  weather  story,  looking  at  the  dififerent  foreign  flags  and  at 
the  odd  foreign  cargoes  unloading  in  strangely-wrought  ship- 
ping boxes  which  smelled  of  spices,  and  wondering  about  the 
8S 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

voyage  over  and  about  the  private  history  of  the  bare-footed, 
underfed  sailors  who  made  it.  The  stevedores'  derricks 
puffed  and  creaked,  and  far  overhead  the  cars  on  the  bridge 
rumbled  on,  but  the  big  ships  seemed  calm  and  patient, 
and  full  of  mystery,  as  if  they  knew  too  many  wondrous 
things  to  be  impressed  by  anything  in  America.  But  all 
this  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  weather  story,  or  how  the 
fog  was  affecting  the  shipping,  or  how  much  behind  their 
schedule  the  ferry-boats  were  running,  or  whether  (by 
good  fortune)  there  had  been  any  collisions  in  the  river. 
That  was  what  he  was  down  there  for. 

Then,  too,  he  used  to  have  some  good  times  when  his 
assignment  took  him  over  into  what  used  to  be  Greenwich; 
along  old,  crooked,  narrow,  village-like  streets  running  all 
sorts  of  directions  and  crossing  each  other  where  they  had 
no  right  to;  where  the  shops  and  people  and  the  whole 
atmosphere  still  seemed  removed  and  village-like.  He  had 
a  lot  of  fun  looking  out  for  old  houses  with  lovable  door- 
ways and  fanlights  and  knockers,  and  sometimes  good  white 
Greek  columns.  And  then,  up  along  East  Broadway, 
which  was  once  so  fashionable  and  is  now  so  forlorn,  with 
dirty  cloakmakers  in  the  spacious  drawing-rooms  and 
signs  in  Hebrew  characters  in  the  windows.  He  used  to 
gaze  at  them  as  he  walked  by  and  dream  about  the  old 
days  of  early  century  hospitality  there ;  the  queer  clothes 
the  women  wore  and  the  strong  punch  the  men  drank,  and 
the  stilted  conversation  they  both  liked,  instead  of  planning 
how  to  work  up  his  story,  and  then  with  a  shock  would 
discover  that  he  had  passed  the  house  where  he  was  to 
push  in  and  ask  a  woman  if  it  was  true  that  her  husband 
had  run  away  with  another  man's  wife;  and  the  worst  of 
it  was  that  they  generally  talked  about  it. 
86 


Within  Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

Not  that  all  his  assignments  were  disagreeable.  There 
was  the  bright,  windy  day  he  was  sent  down  to  the  proving- 
grounds  on  Sandy  Hook  to  write  about  the  new  disappear- 
ing gun-carriage  (which  covered  him  and  the  rest  of  the 
party  with  yellow  powder-dust),  and  he  lunched  with  the 
Secretary  of  the  Navy,  who  was  very  jolly  and  gave 
him  a  half-column  interview.  There  was  Izizim,  the 
pipe-maker,  on  Third  Avenue,  and  the  Frenchman  on 
Twenty-Third  Street,  who  taught  skirt-dancing;  and  there 
was  his  good  friend,  Garri-Boulu,  the  old  Hindoo  sailor,  who 
had  landed  on  one  of  the  big  Calcutta  ships,  suffering  with 
beriberi,  and  was  now  slowly  dying  in  the  Presbyterian 
Hospital  because  he  wouldn't  lose  caste  by  eating  meat, 
and  was  so  polite  that  he  cried  for  fear  he  was  giving  the 
young  doctors  too  much  trouble.  It  took  him  into  odd 
places,  this  news-gathering,  and  made  him  meet  queer 
people,  and  it  was  a  fascinating  life  for  all  its  disagreeable- 
ness,  and  it  was  never  monotonous,  for  it  was  never  alike 
two  days  in  succession.  It  was  full  of  contrasts  —  almost 
dramatic  contrasts,  sometimes.  One  afternoon  he  was 
sent  to  cover  a  convention  of  spiritualists  who  wore  their 
hair  long;  that  evening,  a  meeting  of  the  Association  of 
Liquor  Dealers,  who  had  huge  black  mustaches;  and  the 
next  day  he  was  one  of  a  squad  of  men  under  an  old  ex- 
perienced reporter  up  across  the  Harlem  River  at  work  on 
a  murder  "mystery,"  smoking  cigars  with  Central  Office 
detectives  and  listening  to  the  afternoon-paper  men,  who, 
in  lieu  of  real  news,  made  up  theories  for  one  edition  which 
they  promptly  tore  down  in  the  next.  That  evening  found 
him  within  the  sombre  walls  of  the  New  York  Foundling 
Hospital  up  on  Lexington  Avenue,  asking  questions  of 
soft-voiced  sisters  and  talking  with  wise  young  doctors 
87 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

about  an  epidemic  of  measles  which  was  killing  off  the 

babies. 

He  liked  all  this.     He  thought  it  was  because  he  was 

a  sociologist ;    but  it  was  because  he  was  a  boy.     It  gave 

him  a  thrill  to  go  down  into  a  cellar  after  murder-clews  with 

a  detective,  just  as  it  would  any  other  full-blooded  male. 

He  was  becoming  good  friends  with  some  of  these  sleuths 

—  most  of  whom,  by  the  way,  were  not  at  all  sleuth-like  in 

appearance,  and  went  about  their  day's  work  in  very  much 

the  same  matter-of-fact  way  as  reporters  and  the  rest  of 

the  town. 

Jesse  L.  Williams 

Copyright,  l8gg,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

The  Poets  of  Printing  House  Square  ''Cy        ''^:i'' 

A  S  jolly  a  lot  of  good  fellows,  I  know, 
"^^-    As  you'll  meet  in  this  journey  of  life. 
For  their  hearts  are  in  tune  and  they  sing  as  they  go, 

In  the  midst  of  humanity's  strife. 
And  the  day  may  be  sunny  or  sodden  and  gray, 

And  the  world  may  be  blooming  or  bare, 
The  weary  will  always  be  cheered  by  a  lay 

From  the  poets  of  Printing  House  Square. 

When  the  summer  time  comes  with  its  mantle  of  green, 

And  the  fountain  is  merry  with  song, 
Their  rhymes  flow  as  gayly  and  gently,  I  ween. 

As  the  day  of  the  summer  is  long. 
Forgetful  of  winter's  privation  and  cold. 

They  bathe  in  the  balm  of  the  air. 
And  the  heart  gathers  hope  from  the  song  that  is  sold 

By  the  poet  of  Printing  House  Square. 


Within   Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

In  the  bleak  winter  days  when  the  fountain  is  still, 

And  the  skies  are  forbidding  and  gray, 
He  will  sing  of  the  summer  to  settle  a  bill, 

And  pay  for  his  coal  with  a  lay. 
And  the  warmth  and  the  music  return ;  —  and  the  glow 

And  the  sheen  of  the  summer  are  there. 
No  winter  can  conquer  the  spirit,  I  know, 

Of  the  poet  of  Printing  House  Square. 

Some  day  when  the  rhyme  of  the  seasons  is  done, 

And  the  rush  of  the  riot  is  past  — 
When  the  marvellous  era  of  rest  is  begun. 

And  our  problems  are  finished  at  last; 
When  our  songs  are  all  sung,  and  our  debts  are  all  paid 

And  the  heart  slips  its  anchor  of  care, 
I  only  ask  then  that  my  name  be  arrayed 

With  the  poets  of  Printing  House  Square. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine 
By  permission  of  the  Author 

A  Broadway  Pageant  '"^^        -"^^        '"=^        "^ 

/^VER  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come, 
^-^    Courteous,  the  swart -cheek'd  two-sworded  envoys. 
Leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches,  bare-headed,  im- 
passive, 
Ride  to-day  through  Manhattan. 

4:  *  ^  :<:  4:  >):  4: 

When  million-footed  Manhattan  unpent  descends  to  her 

pavements, 
WTien  the  thunder-cracking  guns  arouse  me  with  the  proud 

roar  I  love, 

89 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

When  the  round-mouth'd  guns  out  of  the  smoke  and  smell 

I  love  spit  their  salutes, 
When  the  fire-flashing  guns   have  fully  alerted   me,  and 

heaven-clouds  canopy  my  city  with  a  delicate  thin  haze. 
When  gorgeous  the  countless  straight  stems,  the  forests  at 

the  wharves,  thicken  with  colors. 
When  every  ship  richly  drest  carries  her  flag  at  the  peak. 
When  pennants  trail  and  street-festoons  hang  from  the 

windows. 
When  Broadway  is  entirely  given  up  to  foot-passengers 

and  foot-standers,  when  the  mass  is  densest. 
When  the  facades  of  the  houses  are  alive  with  people,  when 

eyes  gaze  riveted  tens  of  thousands  at  a  time. 
When  the  guests  from  the  islands  advance,  when  the  pageant 

moves  forward  visible. 
When  the  summons  is  made,  when  the  answer  that  waited 

thousands  of  years  answers, 
I  too  arising,  answering,  descend  to  the  pavements,  merge 

with  the  crowd,  and  gaze  with  them. 

Walt  Whitman 

The  Tombs  ^v:>        "^^        ''^^        "'^        ^^^        o 

T  TRIED  hard  when  in  New  York  to  avoid  both  the  gaols 
^  and  the  graveyards.  To  the  latter  I  was  fortunately 
able  to  give  the  widest  of  berths;  but  a  darker  fate 
befell  me  in  the  matter  of  the  prisons.  The  obliging 
gentleman  who  introduced  me  some  weeks  since  to  the 
police  magistrate  at  Jefferson -market  Court  insisted  that, 
after  having  passed  a  morning  with  Justice,  I  should  make 
a  regular  criminal  day  of  it,  and  see  the  celebrated  Prison 
of  the  Tombs.  Not  to  be  behindhand  in  hospitality,  his 
worship  the  police  justice  himself  pressingly  urged  me, 
90 


Within   Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

before  I  went  down  town,  to  have  a  peep  at  his  own  partic- 
ular gaol  in  the  JeflFerson-market  house.  For  a  while  I 
feebly  resisted  these  invitations;  but  when  an  American 
has  made  up  his  mind  to  "put"  a  stranger  "through," 
he  means  business,  and  is  not  to  be  deterred  from  carrying 
out  his  programme  to  the  very  letter.  So,  as  an  ante- 
chamber to  the  Tombs,  I  took  a  cursory  view  of  the  Jef- 
ferson-market Gaol,  which  occupies  a  very  tall  tower  of 
brick  and  stone  in  the  Italian  Gothic  style  of  architecture. 
The  cells  are  airy,  and  not  by  any  means  cheerless;  the 
inmates  being  permitted  to  read  the  newspapers  and  to 
smoke.  But  I  should  be  discounting  that  which  I  have 
to  say  concerning  American  prison  discipline  were  I  to 
say  more  on  the  reading  and  smoking  heads  in  connection 
with  the  Jefferson-market  Gaol.  The  detenus  were  chiefly 
the  "drunk  and  incapables"  and  the  "drunk  and  dis- 
orderlies," who  had  been  committed  for  short  terms  in 
default  of  payment  of  their  five  and  ten  dollar  fines.  Some 
of  them  were  not  placed  in  the  cells  at  all ;  but  were  locked 
up  in  association  in  a  large  room,  down  each  side  of  which 
ran  a  single  tier  of  open  wooden  cribs  or  bunks  furnished 
with  a  blanket  and  a  coverlet,  and  where,  chatting  together 
quite  gaily,  they  did  not  seem  one  whit  more  uncomfortable 
than  the  steerage  passengers  whom  I  had  seen  on  board 
of  the  good  ship  Scythia. 

Some  of  the  female  prisoners  were  doing  "chores,"  or 
light  house-work,  about  the  gaol,  which  was  altogether 
very  clean  and  comfortable-looking,  and  the  strangest 
feature  about  which  to  me  was  that  it  was  provided  with 
a  lift  or  elevator  passing  from  tier  to  tier  of  cells.  I  mention 
this  structural  improvement  for  the  benefit  of  the  architects 
and  surveyors  of  her  Majesty's  gaols  in  Great  Britain. 
91 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

There  has  been  dwelling  on  my  mind  a  paragraph  which 
I  read  lately  in  a  New  York  paper  concerning  a  gentleman 
who  was  suspected  of  dealing  in  counterfeit  trade  dollars. 
The  paragraph  recited  that  the  gentleman  "skipped  the 
town  to  avoid  further  judicial  complications."  Right 
merrily  did  I  "skip"  Jefferson-market  Gaol;  and  then 
I  skipped  —  literally  so  —  up  an  iron  staircase  some  thirty 
feet  high,  and  into  Sixth  avenue,  and  so  into  one  of  the 
Elevated  Railroad  cars,  which,  in  a  few  minutes,  deposited 
me  on  a  point  close  to  Broadway,  crossing  which  I  found 
myself  at  the  distance  of  a  few  "blocks"  from  my  destina- 
tion. The  Tombs  —  rarely  has  so  appropriate  a  name 
been  bestowed  on  a  prison  —  is  a  really  remarkable  and 
grandiose  specimen  of  Egyptian  architecture;  and  but 
for  the  unfortunate  position  of  the  site  it  would  be  the  most 
imposing  public  building  in  New  York.  The  structure 
occupies  an  entire  block  or  insula,  as  an  ancient  Roman 
district  surveyor  would  phrase  it,  bounded  by  Centre  Street 
on  the  east.  Elm  Street  on  the  West,  Leonard  Street  on  the 
South,  and  Franklin  Street  on  the  north;  and  it  is  thus  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  lower  or  business  quarter  of  the  Island 
of  Manhattan,  and  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  that 
astonishing  Wall  Street,  in  the  purlieus  of  which  so  many 
speculative  individuals  are  so  persistently  and  so  con- 
tinuously qualifying  themselves  for  an  ultimate  residence 
in  this  grim  palace  of  the  felonious  Pharaohs  and  Ptolemies. 
The  really  striking  proportions  of  the  building  are 
dwarfed  into  comparative  insigniiicance  by  its  unfortunate 
structural  disposition,  which  is  in  a  hollow  so  deep  that 
the  coping  of  the  massive  wards  of  the  prison  are  scarcely 
above  the  level  of  the  adjacent  Broadway.  The  site  of 
the  Tombs  was  formerly  occupied  by  a  piece  of  water 
92 


Within  Half  a  Mile  of  City   Hall 

known  as  the  Collect  pond,  which  was  connected  with  the 
North  or  Hudson  River  by  a  swampy  strip,  through  which 
ran  a  rivulet  parallel  with  the  existing  Canal  Street.  The 
Collect  pond  was  filled  up  in  the  year  1836;  and  within 
the  two  years  following,  the  Tombs  Prison  was  built  on 
the  reclaimed  land.  The  marshy  soil  was  ill  calculated 
to  support  the  weight  of  an  edifice  so  colossal;  and  al- 
though the  foundations  were  laid  much  deeper  than  is 
customary,  some  parts  of  the  walls  settled  to  such  an  extent 
that  the  gravest  apprehensions  were  for  a  time  felt  for  the 
safety  of  the  entire  building.  Possibly,  if  the  clerks  and 
warders  could  have  been  extricated  in  time,  no  great  harm 
would  have  been  done  had  the  ponderous  walls  settled 
together,  until  the  Tombs  and  all  the  rogues  within  it  had 
been  comfortably  embogued  in  the  swampy  bosom  of  the 
bygone  Collect  pond.  As  it  is,  the  dismal  fortress  has  stood 
for  a  third  of  a  century  without  any  material  change,  and 
is  considered  jjerfectly  safe.  Who  gave  it  the  name  of 
"Tombs"  I  am  unable  to  say,  since  it  is  legally  the  City 
Prison  —  The  Gaol  of  Newgate,  substantially  —  of  New 
York:  but  the  criminal  stronghold  earned  its  appellation, 
I  should  say,  from  its  general  funereal  appearance  and  its 
early  reputation  as  a  damp  and  unhealthy  place.  Its 
lugubrious  aspect,  it  should  seem,  ought  to  have  made  the 
Tombs  a  terror  to  evil-doers ;  but  such,  I  fear,  has  not  been 
the  case.  The  prison  is  generally  full;  and  the  crop  of 
murderers  is,  in  particular,  steady  and  abundant. 

Externally  the  building  is  entirely  of  granite,  and  appears 
to  be  of  only  one  story,  the  windows  being  carried  from 
a  point  about  two  yards  above  the  ground  up  to  beneath 
the  cornice.  The  main  entrance  is  in,  or,  in  Transatlantic 
parlance,  "on,"  Centre  Street,  and  is  reached  by  a  flight 
93 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

of  wide,  dark  stone  steps,  through  a  spacious  portico  sup- 
ported by  four  ponderous  columns.  The  external  walls 
of  the  remaining  three  sides  are  more  or  less  broken  up  by 
columns  and  secondary  doors  of  entrance,  this  infusing 
some  degree  of  variety  into  the  oppressive  monotony  of 
the  pile,  the  remembrance  of  which  hangs  heavily  upon  you 
afterwards,  like  a  nightmare  on  your  soul.  I  was  ac- 
companied on  my  visit  to  this  abode  of  misery  by  a  gentle- 
man who  had  been  formerly  Mayor  of  New  York;  and 
a  word  from  him  acted  as  an  "open  sesame"  to  the  most 
recondite  penetralia  of  the  prison.  The  chief  warder, 
who  took  us  in  charge,  was  a  "character."  He  had  been 
a  custodian  of  the  Tombs  for  more  than  a  quarter  of 
a  century  —  a  wonderfully  long  spell  for  an  office-holder 
in  America  —  and  he  was,  if  I  mistake  not,  an  Irishman. 
At  least  he  was  endowed  with  a  brogue  as  rich  and  melodious 
as  though  he  had  only  left  the  county  Cork  the  day  before 
yesterday.  He  was  a  wag,  too;  but  in  every  line  of  his 
honest  countenance  there  beamed  one  unmistakable  and 
prevailing  expression  —  that  of  benevolent  pity.  .  .  . 

Internally,  the  Tombs  is  rather  a  series  of  prisons  than 
a  single  structure.  The  cells  rise  in  tiers  one  above  the 
other,  with  a  separate  corridor  for  each  tier.  There  is  a 
grating  before  each  cell,  between  the  bars  of  which  the 
visitor  can  converse  with  the  prisoner  within.  Throughout 
the  day  the  inner,  or  wooden,  door  of  the  cell  is  left 
more  than  half  open.  Beyond  the  circumstance  that  the 
window  —  which  admits  plenty  of  light  —  is  barred,  and 
is  high  up  in  an  embrasure  of  the  wall,  there  need  be 
nothing  whatever  dungeon-like  about  the  cell  in  the  Tombs. 
The  prison  furniture  is  necessarily  scanty  in  quantity  and 
simple  in  quality;  but  the  prisoner  more  or  less  blessed 
94 


Within  Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

by  aflSuence  is  at  liberty  to  supplement  the  equipment  of 
his  apartment  by  any  such  fittings  and  decorations  as  the 
length  of  his  purse  and  the  refinement  of  his  aesthetic 
taste  may  lead  him  to  adopt.  .  .  . 

Finally  the  chief  warder  took  us  to  his  garden, 
where  there  was  a  vine  trained  against  the  wall,  with  a 
pigeon-cote  amply  stocked,  and  a  pretty  little  pond  bordered 
by  turf  and  flowers.  The  chief  spoke  in  terms  of  humorous 
regret  about  the  disappearance  of  "a  grand  old  frog,"  erst 
the  delight  and  ornament  of  the  Tombs  garden,  but  who, 
in  the  course  of  last  fall,  had  eloped  to  realms  unknown. 
Where  is  that  frog  now?  Croaks  he  in  the  Great  Dismal 
Swamp  in  Virginia  —  which,  by  the  way,  is  not  by  any 
means  a  dismal  region  —  or  is  he  going  about  the  States, 
emulating  the  Frog  Opera,  and  singing  counter-tenor  in 
the  PoUywog  Chorus?  I  shook  hands  with  the  benevolent 
chief  warder  and  bade  him  farewell.  To  my  great  joy 
I  found  that  nothing  had  turned  up  against  me  while  I  had 
been  in  the  Tombs.  The  authorities  had  no  warrant  for  my 
detention;  and  by  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  I  was  stand- 
ing in  Centre  Street  as  free  as  that  "grand  old  frog"  who, 
for  reasons  unknown,  had  shown  the  Tombs  a  clean  pair 
of  heels.     I  do  not  mean  to  go  there  again  if  I  can  help  it. 

George  A.  Sala 

From  America  Revisited.     London,  1882 

In  City  Hall  Park     ^r^y        ^c:v        -<;:iy        -«;>..        <:y 

TJE  stands,  a  simple  soldier,  there, 
-*■  -*■    Who  deemed  one  life  too  small  a  fee 
For  him  to  give  in  that  great  strife 
That  made  his  country  free. 
95 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

And  it  is  free !     High  o'er  the  din 

And  turmoil  of  the  city's  ways, 
Lo !  Justice  holds  her  sword  and  scales 

Above  the  land  she  sways. 

The  commerce  of  a  giant  world 
Moves  at  his  feet.     Within  his  reach 

The  tongues  of  nations  meet;   the  air 
Is  vibrant  with  their  speech. 

He  sees  where  science  delves  and  wrests 

The  rock  ribs  of  the  earth  apart, 
And  fills,  with  teeming  floods  of  life, 

The  arteries  of  her  heart. 

In  sober  garb  and  quiet  mien 
He  stands;   from  out  the  western  skies, 

Athwart  the  calmness  of  his  face, 
The  peaceful  sunshine  lies. 

And  while  our  land  endures  to  reap 

His  sowing,  memory  shall  not  fail 
Of  him  who  died  that  she  might  live,  — 

The  patriot,  Nathan  Hale ! 

Mary  Edith  Buhler 

A  New  York  City  Character  ^Ci,.        ^li.-        -=;> 

TT'S  almost  two  years  now  since  Mr.  Keese  (let's  call 
-■-  him  Marty  Keese ;  Mayors,  Borough  Presidents  — 
even  President  Lincoln  on  one  ever-to-be-remembered 
Sunday  —  called  him  Marty,  and  he  liked  the  name)  — 
it's  two  years  since  Marty  explained  for  the  first  time  to 
an  interviewer  from  The  Sun  why  he  found  it  more  difficult 
96 


Within   Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

each  day  to  climb  the  iron  spiral  staircase  that  twists  up 
through  our  beautiful  City  Hall  to  the  apartments  just 
under  the  cupola  that  Marty  had  occupied  ever  since  he 
became  custodian  of  the  City  Hall  almost  thirty  years  ago. 

"  I  used  to  watch  almost  every  rivet,"  Marty  said  then, 
"  as  they  drove  them  into  these  skyscrapers  around  City 
Hall  Park,  and  the  higher  the  skyscrapers  went  the  prouder 
I  was  of  Manhattan"  —  and  he  indicated  with  a  gaunt 
hand  Newspaper  Row  and  the  great  gray  pile  that  rises 
sixteen  stories  on  the  triangular  plot  formed  by  Nassau  and 
Beekman  streets  and  Park  Row  where,  when  Marty  first 
rode  pigs  in  the  park,  stood  the  old  Brick  Church  with  its 
sloping  banks  of  turf  and  the  tiny  graveyard. 

"I  was  proud  of  the  high  buildings  when  they  first  began, 
as  all  New  York  was  proud  of  them,  but  now  when  I  get 
old  enough  to  have  sense,  I'm  sorry  they  ever  put  them  up. 
It  was  prettier  years  ago  when  the  little  buildings  rimmed  my 
square,  buildings  that  were  dwarfs  compared  even  to  that." 

He  indicated  the  old  reddish  brown  bank  building  on 
the  southwest  comer  of  Broadway  and  Park  Place  —  the 
building  on  the  second  floor  of  which  Boss  Tweed  had  his 
offices  in  the  days  before  Marty  Keese  took  an  active  part 
in  the  beginning  of  Boss  Tweed's  downfall  —  for  it  was 
Deputy  Sheriff  Marty  Keese,  you  remember,  who  on 
December  i6,  1871,  took  a  stage  up  to  the  Metropolitan 
Hotel  in  Broadway  at  Prince  Street  and  climbed  up  to 
Suite  114-118  and  arrested  the  very  bad  boss. 

"Before  they  built  the  skyscrapers,"  Marty  went  on, 
"the  light  and  air  could  get  in  at  the  park  trees,  and  that's 
why  I  felt  so  much  friskier  then  —  because  the  air  was 
better.  Before  the  tall  buildings  made  the  square  so  stuffy 
I  could  run  up  here  two  or  three  steps  at  a  time." 
H  97 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Marty  hadn't  been  able  to  do  much  active  work  since 
fresh  "colds"  and  advancing  years  caused  him  steadily 
to  lose  his  fight  against  the  asthma  that  made  him  "stop 
to  cough  and  to  take  a  rest  vv^hen  only  half-way  up"  the 
spiral  staircase,  but  for  almost  threescore  and  ten  years 
before  that  Marty  and  the  activities  of  Manhattan  were  one. 

As  a  fireman  his  record  began  with  the  days  when  as 
a  little  tad  he  "ran"  with  the  23  Engine  "gang"  when 
23  Engine  was  quartered  in  what  was  then  called  Anthony 
Street  and  is  now  Worth  Street.  As  a  youth  he  was  fore- 
man of  Matthew  Brennan  Hose  Company  60,  about  the 
time  that  Tweed  was  foreman  of  Big  Six;  and  while  Tweed 
was  dropping  lower  in  the  sight  of  the  old  volunteer  firemen 
Marty  was  growing  higher,  until  on  a  proud  day  he  became 
president  of  the  Volunteer  Firemen  of  New  York. 

He  enlisted  in  Ellsworth's  Zouaves  in  1861  and  saw  his 
first  real  fighting  at  Bull  Run,  where  he  was  wounded. 
He  returned  to  New  York  just  in  time  to  take  his  place  in 
the  ranks  of  the  soldiers  and  firemen  that  saw  the  vicious 
fighting  which  marked  the  draft  riots  that  began  with  the 
week  of  Monday,  July  13,  1863.  Besides  his  fighting  on 
Southern  battlefields  Marty  did  valiant  work  in  another 
way  just  before  "Ellsworth's  Pet  Lambs"  marched  away 
in  their  enviable  gray  jackets  and  the  wide  trousers  trimmed 
with  red  braid,  for  it  was  Firemen  Marty  Keese,  A.  F. 
Ockershausen,  Dave  Milliken,  Zophar  Mills,  John  Decker 
and  John  Dix  that  raised  most  of  the  $30,000  that  was 
subscribed  for  the  Zouaves  in  a  few  days. 

If  you  asked  Marty  about  Civil  War  days  he  would  begin 
by  telling  you  of  the  fire  in  Willard's  Hotel,  Washington, 
which  the  Zouaves  —  then  quartered  in  the  Capitol  build- 
98 


Within  Half  a  Mile  of  City  Hall 

ing  —  put  out,  for  fires  and  fire  fighting  always  seemed  of 
first  importance  to  Marty  —  battles  came  second.  Then 
he  would  show  you  in  his  scrapbook  a  clipping  of  which 
he  was  proudest  —  from  a  New  York  paper  of  May  13, 
1861: 

There  were  no  ladders  to  get  on  to  the  building,  which  is 
five  or  six  stories  high,  but  there  was  a  lightning  rod,  in  the 
court-yard.  .  .  .  Martin  J.  Keese,  formerly  of  Matthew  T. 
Brennan  Hose  Company  No.  60,  climbed  up  the  lightning  rod 
and  was  the  first  on  the  roof. 

In  Marty  Keese's  New  York  you  were  elected  Mayor 
or  Comptroller  or  City  Chamberlain  or  SheriflF  or  what 
not  because  you  were  prominent  as  a  fireman.  Marty 
didn't  aspire  perhaps  to  offices  quite  so  high  as  these,  but 
it  was  because  he  was  a  good  fireman  that  Sheriff  Matt 
Brennan  took  Marty  into  his  office,  and  he  served  also 
under  William  E.  Connor.  It  was  while  Marty  was  a 
deputy  under  Brennan  that  he  arrested  Tweed,  and  when 
Slippery  Dick  was  arrested  the  following  month  he  locked 
himself  in  for  days  with  Slippery  Dick  in  his  apartments 
in  the  New  York  Hotel  in  Broadway  near  Waverly  Place. 
Early  in  1881  Marty  was  appointed  custodian  of  the  City 
Hall,  and  he  had  held  the  job  ever  since,  whether  Tam- 
many did  or  did  not  hold  sway. 

His  life  was  a  sort  of  connecting  link  between  the  New 
York  that  was  a  sort  of  overgrown  village  and  the  New 
York  that  is  a  world  metropolis.  He  wasn't  cynical  about 
the  New  York  we  know  best,  but  as  you  sat  with  Marty  in 
the  cool  shadows  of  the  City  Hall  lobby  he  would  tell  you 
stories  by  the  hour  about  a  New  York  that  was  much  finer 
to  him.  That  was  "once  upon  a  time,"  when  Manhattan 
was  a  fairyland;  for,  as  Marty  said,  the  sun  shone  brighter 
99 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

then  because  it  was  younger,  and  the  stars  were  cleaner 
and  new  washed  at  night  and  the  Battery  was  the  most 
beautiful  park  in  America,  where  all  the  little  tads  were 
taken  to  roll  on  the  grass  on  Sundays  or  to  gaze  with  wide 
eyes  out  over  a  dancing  bay  that  was  misty  with  the  trem- 
ulous clouds  of  canvas  on  all  the  clipper  ships  from  all 
the  world. 
By  permission  of  the  New  York  Sun 

The  Bowery  ^s:>-        ^=^        ^v>        "^^        -"sii^        •"^y 

'T^HE  Fifth  Avenue  of  the  East  Side  is  the  Bowery. 
-*-  Everyone  knows  the  Bowery  because  for  years 
the  magazine  writer  and  illustrators  have  been  making 
copy  out  of  it.  It  has  been  regarded  by  some  as  the 
freak  street  of  the  town  —  the  place  where  one  goes  to 
laugh  at  the  absurd  and  the  queer,  or  to  get  sociological 
statistics  in  exaggerated  form.  Society  used  to  go  there, 
and  to  its  tributary  streets,  some  years  ago,  on  slumming 
expeditions.  It  does  so  still,  and  comes  back  to  its  uptown 
home  better  satisfied,  perhaps,  with  its  own  quarters. 
Settlement  workers  and  Charity  Organization  people  go 
there,  too;  and  some  of  them  stay  there  to  help  better  the 
social  conditions.  Besides  these  there  are  scores  of  the 
morbidly  curious  who  visit  the  street  seeking  they  know 
not  what,  and  gaining  only  a  dismal  impression.  All  told, 
there  are  many  different  impressions  brought  up  from  the 
Bowery  and  its  runways  by  different  people.  .  .  .  All 
classes  are  there  — •  tradespeople,  clerks,  mechanics, 
truckmen,  longshoremen,  sailors,  janitors,  politicians, 
peddlers,  pawnbrokers,  old-clothes  men,  with  shop  girls, 
sewing-women,  piece  workers,  concert-hall  singers,  chorus 
girls  —  and  all  nationalities.     It  is  one  of  the  most  cosmo- 

100 


Within   Half  a  Mile  of  City   Hall 

politan  streets  in  New  York.  The  Italians  come  into  it 
from  Elizabeth  Street,  the  Chinese  from  Pell  and  Doyers 
streets,  the  Germans  from  beyond  Houston  Street,  the 
Hungarians  from  Second  Avenue,  and  the  Jews  from  almost 
everywhere.  Every  street  coming  up  from  the  East  River 
may  bring  in  a  separate  tale.  Taken  with  a  liberal  sprin- 
kling of  Russians,  Poles,  Rumanians,  Armenians,  Irish,  and 
native  Americans  from  the  west,  north  and  south,  they  make 
a  much-mixed  assemblage.  But  there  is  no  great  variety 
of  hue  in  it.  The  prevailing  dress  is  rather  somber,  as 
well  as  frayed  or  shiny  with  wear.  Occasionally  a  butter- 
fly from  the  theater  sails  by ;  but  the  Bowery  is  not  Fifth 
Avenue,  nor  even  Mott  Street,  in  color-gayety.  Some- 
times one  is  disposed  to  think  it  a  sad  street. 

In  the  theaters  the  prevailing  language  corresponds  to 
the  supporting  constituency.  The  old  Bowery  Theater 
that  once  housed  traditions  of  the  English  stage  with  the 
elder  Booth,  Edwin  Forrest,  and  Charlotte  Cushman,  still 
stands  to-day,  but  it  now  belongs  more  to  the  Hebrew  than 
to  the  American,  and  performances  are  given  there  in  Ger- 
man or  Yiddish  oftener  than  in  English.  At  the  side  of 
it  is  the  popular  Atlantic  Gardens,  where  vaudeville,  music, 
beer,  and  the  German  language  are  largely  provided  each 
night.  Farther  up  town  is  the  Irving  Place  Theater,  once 
more  devoted  to  Germans;  and  as  high  up  on  Madison 
Avenue  as  Fifty-Eighth  Street  there  is  still  another  German 
theater.  The  language  seems  to  prevail  on  the  East  Side. 
Not  but  what  there  are  other  tongues.  The  Italians 
crowd  into  the  Theatro  Italiano  on  the  Bowery,  as  the 
Chinese  into  the  queer  little  theater  on  Doyers  Street  or 
the  Irish  into  Miner's;  but  there  is  always  someone  at 
your  elbow  who  speaks  German,  or  some  kindred  dialect. 

lOI 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

In  other  quarters  of  the  city  there  are  colonies  where  one 
hears  only  Syrian,  Greek,  Russian,  Rumanian,  Hungarian ; 
but  on  the  Bowery,  though  all  nationalities  meet  and  talk 
each  its  own  language,  there  is,  aside  from  English,  a  pre- 
ponderance of  German  and  Yiddish. 

J.  C.  Van  Dyke  in  The  New  New  York 

The  Great  Man  of  the  Quarter  ^^:i>'  <^  '*Ci>' 
*  I  ""HE  doctor  wore  the  only  silk  hat  in  the  Quarter 
■*■  — an  alien,  supercilious  high  hat  that  coolly  as- 
serted the  superiority  of  the  head  under  it  as  it  bobbed 
along.  It  was  rusty  and  ruffled,  antiquated  as  a  stove- 
pipe; but  it  was  no  less  important  to  the  influence  of  his 
words  than  his  degree  from  the  Faculte  de  Medicine  de 
Constantinople  and  the  fame  of  his  skill.  It  was  a  silent- 
sly  declaration  —  intent  of  distinguished  position  —  an  in- 
exhaustible inspiration  to  dignity  in  a  squalid  environment, 
and  always  it  brought  salaams  from  right  and  left,  and  a 
clear  way.  For  the  pristine  gloss  of  it,  and  for  the  militant 
manner  of  superiority  that  accompanied  its  wearing,  the 
simple  tenement-dwellers  of  lower  Washington  Street  — 
which  is  the  neighborhood  of  the  great  soap  factory,  and 
the  hive  of  expatriated  Syrians  —  accounted  the  doctor 
equal  with  MacNamarra  of  the  corner  saloon,  who  wore 
his  only  on  Tuesdays,  when  the  Board  of  Aldermen  met, 
and  on  certain  mysterious  occasions  —  such  as  when  the 
Irish  have  sprigs  of  green  on  their  coat  lapels.  This  was 
important  to  Nageeb  Fiani,  the  dreamer,  who  had  a  pastry- 
cook for  a  partner,  and  kept  a  little  shop  just  where  the 
long  shadow  of  the  soap-factory  chimney  reaches  at  two 
o'clock  of  a  midsummer  afternoon.  The  people  knew  for 
themselves  that  there  was  no  greater  musician  than  he 

102 


Within   Half  a  Mile  of  City   Hall 

from  Rector  Street  to  the  Battery  and  in  all  the  colonies 
of  the  Quarter;  but  the  Doctor  Effendi  said  that  there  was 
none  greater  in  all  Syria. 

When  the  spirit  of  revolution  stalked  abroad  —  as  may 
be  set  down  another  time  —  the  Minister  from  Turkey 
came  of  a  direful  whim  to  the  Quarter.  To  the  doctor, 
as  the  most  important  of  the  Sultan's  Syrian  subjects  in 
Washington  Street,  Hadji,  servant  to  the  Consul  General, 
first  gave  notification  of  his  coming.  The  Important  One, 
having  artfully  concealed  the  chagrin  for  which,  as  he  knew, 
the  practised  Hadji  was  keenly  spying,  dispatched  Nageeb, 
the  intelligent,  Abo-Samara's  little  son,  to  inform  the 
Archimandrite  and  the  rich  men  of  the  Quarter,  and  put 
a  flea  in  his  ear,  no  more  to  give  speed  to  the  message  than 
to  impress  the  Consul's  servant  with  his  royal  appreciation 
of  the  great  honor.  Then  he  sent  Hadji  off  to  his  master 
to  say  that  the  devoted  subjects  of  His  Benign  Majesty, 
the  Sultan  —  to  whom  might  God,  their  God,  give  every 
good  and  perfect  gift,  as  it  is  written  —  alien  from  his  rule 
through  hard  necessity,  but  ever  mindful  of  their  heritage, 
his  service,  would  as  little  children,  kiss  the  hand  of  him 
whom  God  had  blessed  with  the  high  favor  of  the  ruler  of 
precious  name. 

Norman  Duncan  in  The  Soul  of  the  Street 
Copyright,  igoo.     By  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page,  &"  Co. 

Chinatown     '^^^        "^^        •^^^        ^^^        "v^        -Qy 

JUST    turn    to    your    right    from     Chatham     Square, 
and  —  there    you    are !      Chinatown    is    a    different 
world;  the  very  silence  of  it  has  a  foreign  sound  to  one 
coming  out  of   the  boiler   factory   of   Chatham   Square. 
In  Chinatown  the  citizens  move  tacitly  on  felt-soled  shoes. 
103 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

And  they  have  a  foreign  way  of  walking  in  the  streets, 
which  are  almost  as  narrow  as  the  narrow  sidewalks,  and 
go  with  such  crooks  and  turns  that  one  of  them  —  Pell 
Street  —  describes  a  semicircle,  and,  with  true  Oriental 
politeness,  eventually  leads  you  right  back  to  the  street  you 
just  left. 

In  Chinatown  you  feel  something  sinister  in  the  stealthy 
tread  and  prowling  manner  of  these  Celestial  immigrants. 
Harmless  soever  as  they  may  be,  they  suggest  melodramas 
of  opium  dens  and  highbinders.     You  happen  on  them 
in  dark  hallways,  or  find  them  looking  at  you  from  strange 
crannies  of  ramshackle  structures  like  night-blooming  felines. 
Chinatown  is  truly  a  separate  town,  for  though  it  has  a 
population  of  hardly  more  than  a  thousand,  there  are  seven 
times  as  many  Chinese  engaged  in   laundry  and  other 
tasks  in  other  parts  of  New  York,  and  there  are  colonies 
of  pigtailed  farmers  out  on  Long  Island,  to  whom  China- 
town is  a  Mecca.     The  town's  private  afifairs  are  governed 
by  a  committee  of  twelve  prominent  Chinese  merchants 
and  an  annually  elected  "Mayor."     The  business  of  the 
municipality  is  partly  drawn   from   curious  sightseers, 
but  largely  from  native  patrons;    the  shops  are  de- 
voted to  Celestial  foodstuffs,  pottery,  jewelry,  fab- 
rics and  laundry  supplies.    The  tourists  who  can- 
not read  the  multicolored  banners  that  hang 
out  for  signs  can  read  only  too  well  the 
shop-window   allurements   of   porcelains, 
ivories,  silks,  fans,  screens  and  idols. 
Rupert  Hughes 
in  The  Real  New  York. 
Copyright,  1904.    By  permission 
of  the  Author 
104 


m 

GREENWICH  AND   CHELSEA  VILLAGES 


Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word,  liquid,  sane,  un- 
ruly, musical,  self-sufiScient. 
I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word  from  of  old. 

Walt  Whitman 


m 

GREENWICH  AND   CHELSEA  VILLAGES 
Lispenard's  Meadow  -<;>y        -Oy        ^o        -<;:> 

"  TN  going  from  the  city  to  our  office  (in  Greenwich)  in 
-^  1808  and  1809,"  John  Randel  writes,  under  date  of 
April  6,  1864,  "I  generally  crossed  a  ditch  cut  through 
Lispenard's  salt  meadow  (now  a  culvert  under  Canal 
Street)  on  a  plank  laid  across  it  for  a  crossing-place  about 
midway  between  a  stone  bridge  on  Broadway  with  a  narrow 
embankment  at  each  end  connecting  it  with  the  upland, 
and  an  excavation  then  being  made  at,  and  said  to  be  for, 
the  foundation  of  the  present  St.  John's  Church  on  Varick 
Street.  From  this  crossing-place  I  followed  a  well-beaten 
path  leading  from  the  city  to  the  then  village  of  Greenwich, 
passing  over  open  and  partly  fenced  lots  and  fields,  not 
at  that  time  under  cultivation,  and  remote  from  any  dwelling- 
house  now  remembered  by  me  except  Colonel  Aaron  Burr's 
former  country-seat,  on  elevated  ground,  called  Richmond 
Hill,  which  was  about  one  hundred  or  one  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  west  of  this  path,  and  was  then  occupied  as  a  place 
of  refreshment  for  gentlemen  taking  a  drive  from  the  city. 
Its  site  is  now  in  Charlton  Street,  between  Varick  and 
Macdougal  Streets.  I  continued  along  this  main  path 
to  a  branch  path  diverging  from  it  to  the  east,  south  of 
Manetta  water  (now  Minetta  Street),  which  branch  path  I 
followed  to  Herring  Street  (now  Bleecker  Street),  passing 
107 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

on  my  way  there,  from  about  two  hundred  to  two  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  west,  the  country  residence  of  Colonel 
Richard  Varick,  on  elevated  ground  east  of  Manetta 
water,  called  'Tusculum,'  the  site  of  which  is  now  on 
Varick  Place,  on  Sullivan  Street,  between  Bleecker  and 
Houston  streets.  On  Broadway,  north  of  Lispenard's 
salt  meadow,  now  Canal  Street,  to  Sailor's  Snug  Harbor, 
a  handsome  brick  building  called  by  that  name,  erected 
on  elevated  ground  near  the  bend  in  Broadway  near  the 
present  Tenth  Street,  and  formerly  the  residence  of  Captain 
Randall;  .  .  .  and  from  the  Bowery  road  westward  to 
Manetta  water,  there  were  only  a  few  scattered  buildings, 
except  country  residences  which  were  built  back  from 
Broadway  with  court-yards  and  lawns  of  trees  and  shrubs 
in  front  of  them." 

John  Randel,  Jr. 

The  Plague  which  Built  Greenwich,  1822    <:>      <:> 

TT  had  been  a  hideous  day  for  New  York.  From  early 
■■-  morning  until  long  after  dark  had  set  in,  the  streets 
had  been  filled  with  frightened,  disordered  crowds.  The 
city  was  again  stricken  with  the  old,  inevitable,  ever- 
recurring  scourge  of  yellow  fever,  and  the  people  had 
lost  their  heads.  In  every  house,  in  every  office  and  shop, 
there  was  hasty  packing,  mad  confusion,  and  wild  flight. 
It  was  only  a  question  of  getting  out  of  town  as  best  one 
might.  Wagons  and  carts  creaked  and  rumbled  and  rattled 
through  every  street,  piled  high  with  household  chattels, 
up-headed  in  blind  haste.  Women  rode  on  the  swaying 
loads,  or  walked  beside  with  the  smaller  children  in  their 
arms.  Men  bore  heavy  burdens,  and  children  helped 
according  to  their  strength.  There  was  only  one  idea,  and 
108 


Greenwich  and  Chelsea  Villages 

that  was  flight  —  from  a  pestilence  whose  coming  might 
have  been  prevented,  and  whose  course  could  have  been 
stayed.  To  most  of  these  poor  creatures  the  only  haven 
seemed  to  be  Greenwich  Village;  but  some  sought  the 
scattered  settlements  above;  some  crossed  to  Hoboken; 
some  to  Bushwick;  while  others  made  a  long  journey  to 
Staten  Island,  across  the  bay.  And  when  they  reached 
their  goals,  it  was  to  beg  or  buy  lodgings  anywhere  and 
anyhow;  to  sleep  in  cellars  and  garrets,  in  barns  and 
stables. 

The  panic  was  not  only  among  the  poor  and  ignorant. 
Merchants  were  moving  their  offices,  and  even  the  Post 
Office  and  the  Custom  House  were  to  be  transferred  to 
Greenwich.  There  were  some  who  remained  faithful 
throughout  all,  and  who  labored  for  the  stricken,  and  whose 
names  are  not  even  written  in  the  memory  of  their  fellow- 
men.  But  the  city  had  been  so  often  ravaged  before,  that 
at  the  first  sight  there  was  one  mere  animal  impulse  of 
flight  that  seized  upon  all  alike. 

At  one  o'clock,  when  some  of  the  better  streets  had  once 
more  taken  on  their  natural  quiet,  an  ox-cart  stood  before 
the  door  of  the  Dolphs'  old  house.  A  little  behind  it  stood 
the  family  carriage,  its  lamps  unlit.  The  horses  stirred 
uneasily,  but  the  oxen  waited  in  dull,  indifferent  patience. 
Presently  the  door  opened,  and  two  men  came  out  and 
awkwardly  bore  a  plain  coffin  to  the  cart.  Then  they 
mounted  to  the  front  of  the  cart,  hiding  between  them 
a  muffled  lantern.  They  wore  cloths  over  the  lower 
part  of  their  faces,  and  felt  hats  drawn  low  over  their  eyes. 
Something  in  their  gait  showed  them  to  be  seafaring  men, 
or  the  like. 

Then  out  of  the  open  door  came  Jacob  Dolph,  moving 
109 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

with  a  feeble  shuffle  between  his  son  and  his  old  negro 
coachman  —  this  man  and  his  wife  the  only  faithful  of 
all  the  servants.  The  young  man  put  his  father  in  the 
carriage,  and  the  negro  went  back  and  locked  the  doors 
and  brought  the  keys  to  his  young  master.  He  mounted 
to  the  box,  and  through  the  darkness  could  be  seen  a  white 
towel  tied  around  his  arm  —  the  old  badge  of  servitude's 
mourning. 

The  oxen  were  started  up,  and  the  two  vehicles  moved 
up  into  Broadway.  They  travelled  with  painful  slowness; 
the  horses  had  to  be  held  in  to  keep  them  behind  the  cart, 
for  the  oxen  could  be  only  guided  by  the  whip,  and  not 
by  word  of  mouth.  The  old  man  moaned  a  little  at  the 
pace,  and  quivered  when  he  heard  the  distant  sound  of 
hammers. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  nervously. 

"They  are  boarding  up  some  of  the  streets,"  said  his 
son;  "do  not  fear,  father.  Everything  is  prepared;  and 
if  we  make  no  noise,  we  shall  not  be  troubled." 

"If  we  can  only  keep  her  out  of  the  Potter's  Field  — 
the  Potter's  Field,"  cried  the  father;  "I'll  thank  God — 
I'll  ask  no  more  —  I'll  ask  no  more." 

And  then  he  broke  down  and  cried  a  little  feebly,  and  got 
his  son's  hand  in  the  darkness  and  put  on  his  own  shoulder. 

It  was  nearly  two  when  they  came  to  St  Paul's  and  turned 
the  corner  to  the  gate.  It  was  dark  below,  but  some 
frenzied  fools  were  burning  tar-barrels  far  down  Ann  Street, 
and  the  light  flickered  on  the  top  of  the  Church  spire. 
They  crossed  the  churchyard  to  where  a  shallow  grave 
had  been  dug,  halfway  down  the  hill.  The  men  lowered 
the  body  into  it;  the  old  negro  gave  them  a  little  rouleau 
of  coin,  and  they  went  hurriedly  away  into  the  night. 
no 


Greenwich  and  Chelsea  Villages 

The  clergyman  came  out  by  and  by,  with  the  sexton 
behind  him.  He  stood  high  up  above  the  grave,  and 
drew  his  long  cloak  about  him  and  lifted  an  old  pomander- 
box  to  his  face.  He  was  not  more  foolish  than  his  fellows ; 
in  that  evil  hour  men  took  to  charms  and  to  saying  of  spells. 
Below  the  grave  and  apart,  for  the  curse  rested  upon  them, 
too,  stood  Jacob  Dolph  and  his  son,  the  old  man  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  the  younger.  Then  the  clergyman  began  to 
read  the  service  for  the  burial  of  the  dead,  over  the  de- 
parted sister  —  and  wife  and  mother.  He  spoke  low ; 
but  his  voice  seemed  to  echo  in  the  stillness.  He  came 
forward  with  a  certain  shrinking,  and  cast  the  handful 
of  dust  and  ashes  into  the  grave.  When  it  was  done,  the 
sexton  stepped  forward  and  rapidly  threw  in  the  earth  until 
he  had  filled  the  little  hollow  even  with  the  ground.  Then, 
with  fearful  precaution,  he  laid  down  the  carefully  cut 
sods,  and  smoothed  them  until  there  was  no  sign  of  what 
had  been  done.  The  clergyman  turned  to  the  two  mourners, 
without  moving  nearer  to  them,  and  lifted  up  his  hands. 
The  old  man  tried  to  kneel;  but  his  son  held  him  up,  for 
he  was  too  feeble,  and  they  bent  their  heads  for  a  moment 
of  silence.  The  clergyman  went  away  as  he  had  come; 
and  Jacob  Dolph  and  his  son  went  back  to  the  carriage. 
When  his  father  was  seated,  young  Jacob  Dolph  said  to 
the  coachman:    "To  the  new  house." 

The  heavy  coach  swung  into  Broadway,  and  climbed  up 
the  hill  out  into  the  open  country.  There  were  lights  still 
burning  in  the  farmhouses,  bright  gleams  to  the  east  and 
west,  but  the  silence  of  the  damp  summer  night  hung  over 
the  sparse  suburbs,  and  the  darkness  seemed  to  grow  more 
intense  as  they  drove  away  from  the  city.  The  trees  by 
the  roadside  were  almost  black  in  the  gray  mist ;  the  raw, 
III 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

moist  smell  of  the  night,  the  damp  air,  chilly  upon  the  high 
land,  came  in  through  the  carriage  windows. 

H.  C.  BuNNER  in  The  Story  of  a  New  York  House 
Copyright,  1887,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

A  Song  of  Bedford  Street    -v:>        <:>        -^^y        o 

TT'S  a  long  time  ago  and  a  poor  time  to  boast  of, 
-■■  The  foolish  old  time  of  two  young  people's  start. 
But  sweet  were  the  days  that  young  love  made  the  most  of — 

So  short  by  the  clock,  and  so  long  by  the  heart! 
We  lived  in  a  cottage  in  old  Greenwich  Village, 

With  a  tiny  clay  plot  that  was  burnt  brown  and  hard; 
But  it  softened  at  last  to  my  girl's  patient  tillage. 

And  the  roses  sprang  up  in  our  little  back  yard. 

The  roses  sprang  up  and  the  yellow  day-lilies; 

And  heartsease  and  pansies,  sweet  Williams  and  stocks, 
And  bachelors' -buttons  and  bright  daffodillies 

Filled  green  little  beds  that  I  bordered  with  box. 
They  were  plain  country  posies,  bright-hued  and  sweet- 
smelling, 

And  the  two  of  us  worked  for  them,  worked  long  and  hard ; 
And  the  flowers  she  had  loved  in  her  old-country  dwelling, 

They  made  her  at  home  in  our  little  back  yard. 

In  the  morning  I  dug  while  the  breakfast  was  cooking, 

And  went  to  the  shop,  where  I  toiled  all  the  day; 
And  at  night  I  returned,  and  I  found  my  love  looking 

With  her  bright  country  eyes  down  the  dull  city  way. 
And  first  she  would  tell  me  what  flowers  were  blooming. 

And  her  soft  hand  slipped  into  a  hand  that  was  hard. 
And  she  led  through  the  house  till  a  breeze  came  perfuming 

Our  little  back  hall  from  our  little  back  yard. 
112 


Greenwich  and  Chelsea  Villages 

It  was  long,  long  ago,  and  we  haven't  grown  wealthy; 

And  we  don't  live  in  state  up  in  Madison  Square: 
But  the  old  man  is  hale,  and  he's  happy  and  healthy, 

And  his  wife's  none  the  worse  for  the  gray  in  her  hair. 
Each  year  lends  a  sweeter  new  scent  to  the  roses; 

Each  year  makes  hard  life  seem  a  little  less  hard; 
And  each  year  a  new  love  for  old  lovers  discloses  — 

Come,  wife,  let  us  walk  in  our  little  back  yard ! 

H.  C.  BUNNER 
Copyright,  i8g6,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

The  Fourteenth  Street  Theater        '^^        ^=^        ^^^i*- 

A  S  soon  as  we  were  settled  and  poor  singed  Josephus 
^  had  tiptoed  in  by  the  fire,  evidently  trying  to  make 
up  for  his  shabby  coat  by  the  profundity  of  his  purr, 
Evan  set  forth  his  scheme  to  our  hostess.  .  .  . 

To  my  surprise  in  five  minutes  Miss  Lavinia  was  ready, 
and  we  sallied  forth,  Evan  sandwiched  between  us.  As 
the  old  Dorman  house  is  in  the  northeastern  corner  of 
what  was  far  away  Greenwich  Village,  —  at  the  time  the 
Bouerie  was  a  blooming  orchard,  and  is  meshed  in  by  a 
curious  jumble  of  thoroughfares,  that  must  have  originally 
either  followed  the  tracks  of  wandering  cattle  or  worthy 
citizens  who  had  lost  their  bearings,  for  Waverley  Place 
comes  to  an  untimely  end  in  West  Eleventh  Street,  and 
Fourth  Street  collides  with  Horatio  and  is  headed  off  by 
Thirteenth  Street  before  it  has  a  chance  even  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  river,  —  a  few  steps  brought  us  into 
Fourteenth  Street,  where  flaming  gas  jets  announced  that 
the  play  of  "Jim  Bludso"  might  be  seen. 

"Dear  me!"  ejaculated  Miss  Lavinia,  "do  people  still 
go  to  this  theater?"  ... 

I  "3 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

It  is  a  great  deal  to  be  surrounded  by  an  audience  all 
thoroughly  in  the  mood  to  be  swayed  by  the  emotion  of 
the  piece,  plain  people,  perhaps,  but  solidly  honest. 
Directly  in  front  sat  a  young  couple;  the  girl,  in  a  fresh 
white  silk  waist,  wore  so  fat  and  new  a  wedding  ring 
upon  her  ungloved  hand,  which  the  man  held  in  a  tight  grip, 
that  I  surmised  that  this  trip  into  stageland  was  perhaps 
their  humble  wedding  journey,  from  which  they  would 
return  to  "rooms"  made  ready  by  jubilant  relatives,  eat  a 
wonderful  supper,  and  begin  life. 

The  next  couple  were  not  so  entirely  en  rapport.  The 
girl,  who  wore  a  gorgeous  garnet  engagement  ring,  also 
very  new,  merely  rested  her  hand  on  her  lover's  coat  sleeve 
where  she  could  see  the  light  play  upon  the  stones. 

When,  after  the  first  act,  in  answer  to  hearty  rounds  of 
applause,  varied  with  whistles  and  shouts  from  the  gallery, 
the  characters  stepped  forward,  not  in  the  unnatural  string 
usual  in  more  genteel  playhouses,  where  victor  and  van- 
quished join  hands  and  bow,  but  one  by  one,  each  being 
greeted  by  cheers,  hisses,  or  groans,  according  to  the  part ; 
and  when  the  villain  appeared  I  found  myself  groaning 
with  the  rest,  and  though  Evan  laughed,  I  know  he 
understood. 

After  it  was  over,  as  we  went  out  into  the  night,  Evan 
headed  toward  Sixth  Avenue  instead  of  homeward. 

"May  I  ask  where  we  are  going  now ? "  said  Miss  Lavinia 
meekly.  She  had  really  enjoyed  the  play,  and  I  know  I 
heard  her  sniff  once  or  twice  at  the  proper  time,  though 
of  course  I  pretended  not  to. 

"Going?"  echoed  Evan.  "Only  around  the  corner  to 
get  three  fries  in  a  box,  with  the  usual  pickle  and  cracker 
trimmings,  there  being  no  restaurant  close  by  that  you 
114 


Greenwich   and  Chelsea  Villages 

would  care  for;  then  we  will  carry  them  home  and  have 
a  little  supper  in  the  pantry,  if  your  Lucy  has  not  locked  up 
the  forks  and  taken  the  key  to  bed.  If  she  has,  we  can 
use  wooden  toothpicks." 

At  first  Miss  Lavinia  seemed  to  feel  guilty  at  the  idea  of 
disturbing  Lucy's  immaculate  pantry  at  such  an  hour; 
but  liberty  is  highly  infectious.  She  had  spent  the  evening 
out  without  previous  intent;  the  next  step  was  to  feel  that 
her  soul  was  her  own  on  her  return.  She  unlocked  the 
forks,  Evan  unpacked  the  upstairs  ice-chest  for  the  dog's- 
head  bass  that  wise  women  always  have  when  they  expect 
visiting  Englishmen,  even  though  they  are  transplanted 
and  acclimated  ones,  and  she  ate  the  oysters,  still  steaming, 
from  their  original  package,  with  great  satisfaction.  After 
we  had  finished  Miss  Lavinia  bravely  declared  her  in- 
dependence of  Lucy.  The  happy  don't-care  feeling  pro- 
duced by  broiled  oysters  and  bass  on  a  cold  night  is  a 
perfect  revelation  to  people  used  to  after-theater  suppers 
composed  of  complications,  sticky  sweets,  and  champagne. 

When  we  had  finished  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  she 
showed  a  desire  to  conceal  the  invasion  by  washing  the 
dishes,  but  she  put  it  aside,  and  we  all  went  upstairs  to- 
gether. 

Mabel  Osgood  Wright  in  People  of  the  Whirlpool 

Greenwich  and  Chelsea       ^^:>         ^^>         'v^         o 

/'"GREENWICH  is  one  of  the  very  oldest  places  on  the 
^^  island  of  Manhattan.  At  first  it  was  an  Indian 
village,  called  Sapokanican,  and  was  probably  near  the 
present  site  of  Gansevoort  Market.  The  Dutch  gov- 
ernor, Wouter  Van  Twiller,  coveted  it,  and  finally  se- 
cured it  as  a  tobacco  farm.  The  farmhouse  he  built 
"5 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

upon  it,  as  Mr.  Janvier  tells  us,  was  the  first  building  erected 
outside  of  the  Fort  Amsterdam  region,  and  practically  the 
beginning  of  Greenwich.  The  village  had  an  uneventful 
history  under  the  Dutch,  and  when  it  passed  to  the  English, 
it  had  a  suburban  character  for  many  years.  It  was  a 
place  where  the  Warrens,  the  Bayards,  and  the  DeLanceys 
had  country  homes.  The  building  of  it  was  a  gradual 
afifair.  It  was  of  some  proportions  when  in  1811  the  City 
Plan,  whereby  New  York  was  cut  up  into  checkerboard 
"blocks,"  came  into  existence.  The  new  plan  jostled  the 
rambling  nature  of  Greenwich  to  the  breaking  point,  and 
yet  left  some  of  its  quarter-circle  and  corkscrew  streets 
sufl&ciently  intact  for  the  people  of  the  middle  nineteenth 
century  to  build  substantial  dwellings  along  them.  These 
streets  with  their  red-brick  buildings  remain  to  us  and 
make  up  perhaps  the  most  picturesque  glimpse  of  old  New 
York  that  we  have.  Along  them  one  sees  scattered  here 
and  there  the  gable -windowed  wooden  houses  of  an  earlier 
period,  with  a  quaint  St.  Luke's  Chapel,  or  a  scrap  of  a 
park,  or  trees  and  vines  and  garden  walls  that  now  look 
strange  in  the  great  city. 

But  Greenwich  Village  is  one  of  the  fast-disappearing 
features  of  the  town.  And  here  again  the  contrast  is  pre- 
sented. Above  the  gambrel  roofs  of  the  past  are  lifting 
enormous  sky -scraping  factories  and  warehouses,  the  traffic 
from  the  ocean-liners  rattles  through  the  streets,  the  Ninth 
Avenue  Elevated  roars  overhead.  St.  Luke's  Park  (or, 
as  it  is  now  called,  Hudson  Park)  has  been  remodeled  into 
a  sunken  water-garden  with  handsome  Italian -looking 
loggias  that  make  one  gasp  when  seen  against  the  old  brick 
residences  on  either  side  of  it.  Abingdon  Square  (named 
for  the  Earl  of  Abingdon,  who  married  one  of  the  Warrens, 
116 


Greenwich   and  Chelsea  Villages 

and  thus  came  into  possession  of  many  acres  in  Green- 
wich) has  only  its  name  left  to  suggest  a  connection  with 
history.  Everywhere  the  new  is  crowding  out  the  old; 
and  before  long  Greenwich,  where  many  an  old-time  New 
York  family  made  the  money  that  carried  it  up  to  a  brown- 
stone  front  on  Fifth  Avenue,  will  be  merely  a  tradition. 

It  is  a  comparatively  clean  portion  of  the  town,  this 
Greenwich  district,  though  now  a  foreign  population  is 
crowding  in  upon  it  to  its  detriment.  A  walk  there  is 
entertaining  and,  in  some  of  the  streets,  quite  astonishing, 
not  alone  for  what  one  sees,  but  for  what  one  does  not  hear. 
In  spots  there  is  an  unwonted  silence,  as  though  one  were 
in  some  country  village.  Up  Washington  Street  and  up 
Tenth  Avenue  there  are  scraps  of  this  silence  to  be  found 
about  old  houses,  old  walls,  old  trees.  At  Twentieth  Street 
the  extensive  grounds  of  the  General  Theological  Seminary 
(formerly  called  Chelsea  Square),  with  their  commanding 
buildings,  seem  to  emphasize  the  stillness ;  but  at  the  much 
traveled  Twenty-third  Street  it  is  lost  in  the  roar  of  trucks 
and  trolleys. 

Unfortunately,  perhaps,  the  average  man  who  walks  up 
town  in  the  afternoon  takes  none  of  these  strolls  —  neither 
to  the  east  nor  to  the  west.  He  bolts  up  Broadway  with 
the  mob,  pushing  his  way  along  the  sidewalks,  dodging 
trucks  from  the  side  streets,  breathing  dust  and  smoke 
from  all  streets,  and  apparently  seeing  nothing,  not  even 
his  fellow-pedestrians.  With  some  fine  scheme  in  his  head 
(a  pot  of  money  its  ultimate  outcome),  he  looks  at  passing 
buildings,  lights,  and  colors,  but  receives  no  impression 
from  them.  He  is  out  for  bodily  exercise,  and  thinks  he  is 
getting  it,  but  knows  no  reason  why  he  should  not  work  his 
head  in  another  direction  at  the  same  time.  The  charm 
117 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

of  Grace  Church  is  lost  upon  him;    and  Union  Square 
appears  to  him  only  as  a  place  where  there  are  some 
trees,  park  benches,  and  dirty-looking  people  seated 
on  the  benches  reading  yellow-looking  newspapers. 
At  Madison  Square  perhaps  he  begins  to  take 
notice;  but  not  of  Saint  Gaudens'  "Farragut," 
nor  the  trees,  nor  the  revel  of  color  all  about. 
He  squints  an  eye  at  the  present  condi- 
tion of  the  newest  ascending  sky-scraper; 
he  takes  a  look  at  a  new  turn-out  or 
automobile,  or  looks  over  the  crowd 
for  chance  acquaintances,  for  he 
is  in  the  shopping  district  and 
there    are    many     smartly 
dressed  men  and  women 
in     the     throng.      In 
short,  up  town  has 
been  reached,  and 
life  once  more 
begins     for 
him. 
J.  C.  Van  Dyke 
in  The  New  New  York 


it8 


IV 

THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  NEIGHBORHOOD 


BROADWAY 

HERE  surge  the  ceaseless  caravans, 
Here  throbs  the  city's  heart, 
And  down  the  street  each  takes  his  way 
To  play  his  little  part. 

The  tides  of  life  flow  on,  flow  on, 

And  Laughter  meets  Despair; 
A  heart  might  break  along  Broadway  .  .  . 
I  wonder  who  would  care? 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 
Copyright,  igo8,  by  the  B.  W.  Dodge  Co. 


IV 

THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  NEIGHBORHOOD 

Grace  Church  Garden        ^v>         ^;i^        -«;>        '^^ 

T  TINT  of  a  verdant  peace  that  lies 
-'■  -''  Far  from  the  great  town's  noise  and  heat, 
Far  from  the  vision  of  tired  eyes, 
And  the  din  of  hurrying  feet. 

Sweet  suggestion  of  quiet  ways, 
With  a  wide  sky  bending  overhead, 

Where  shadows  Hnger  and  sunshine  plays, 
And  the  earth  is  soft  to  the  tread. 

Bit  of  vivid  and  cheerful  green, 

In  the  midst  of  tumult,  yet  apart, 
Fair  and  peaceful,  resting  serene, 

On  the  city's  turbulent  heart. 

Frances  A.  Schneider 

The  Brasserie  Pigault  ^=^        •^^^        -^^        '^^ 

*  I  ''HE  Doctor's  domain  was  extensive.  Five  years 
-■-  after  his  return  from  the  war  he  had  taken  the  two 
upper  floors  of  the  old  house,  on  a  fifteen  years'  lease. 
He  had  tried  to  get  a  lease  for  a  longer  term,  but  even 
the  conservative  old  German  who  was  his  landlord  knew 
that  rents  would  go  up  as  the  years  went  on;  and  fifteen 
years  was  the  longest  period  for  which  he  would  agree  to 

121 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

let  Dr.  Peters  have  the  rooms  at  the  modest  rate  that  they 
then  commanded. 

He  had  wanted  a  home,  this  lonely  bachelor  stranded 
after  the  great  war.  Bachelors  sometimes  want  homes; 
they  even  long  for  them  with  a  conscious,  understanding, 
intelligent  desire  that  their  married  friends  never  credit 
them  with.  "You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  home," 
says  Smith,  who  married  at  twenty-five,  to  Jones,  who 
is  unmarried  at  forty.  But  Jones  does  know  what  it 
would  be  to  have  a  home,  for  does  he  not  know  what  it  is 
not  to  have  a  home  ?  Ay,  far  more  than  complacent  Smith, 
who  made  his  nest  from  mere  blind  instinct,  long  before  he 
could  have  become  conscious  of  his  own  need  of  a  nest  — 
far  more  than  happy,  comfortable,  satisfied  Smith,  does 
this  lone  bird  of  celibacy  of  a  Jones  know  of  the  superiority 
of  a  consecrated  abiding-place  to  his  cold,  casual  twig. 

There  is  always  something  comically,  dismally  pathetic 
about  the  bachelor's  attempt  to  construct  a  home.  I  was 
once  at  the  performance  of  an  opera  attempted  by  a  weak 
little  theatrical  troupe  that  was  in  bad  luck.  The  tenor 
had  failed  them  at  the  last  moment,  so  a  good-looking 
supernumerary  stood  up  in  the  tenor's  clothes  while  the 
poor,  hard-working,  middle-aged  soprano  sang  both  parts 
of  their  duets.  That  is  what  the  bachelor  tries  to  do  — 
to  sing  both  parts  of  their  duets. 

It  is  always  a  failure;  and  so  the  Doctor  found  it.  .  .  . 

"Perhaps  it's  Luise's  cooking,"  he  thought:  "I  ought 
to  be  inured  to  it ;  but  maybe  it's  like  arsenic  or  morphine 
—  a  sort  of  cumulative  poison.  I  guess  I'm  getting 
dyspeptic." 

He  went  upstairs  to  take  a  look  at  the  kitchen  and  see 
if  he  could  conjure  up  again  his  old  dream.  .  .  . 

122 


The  Washington  Square  Neighborhood 

He  tried  to  think  charitably  of  Luise;  but  there  was  no 
room  for  doubt  about  the  dinner.  It  was  simply  bad. 
Many  people  like  German  cooking;  but  nobody  could  like 
Luise's  German  cooking.  She  had  a  way  of  announcing 
the  names  of  the  dishes,  as  she  set  them  down  with  a  vicious 
slam,  and  she  told  him  that  the  viand  of  the  evening  was 
a  "Wiener  Schnitzel."  He  credited  her  with  forethought 
in  this,  for  if  she  had  not  done  so,  he  would  not  have  been 
able  to  guess  the  fact  that  what  was  before  him  had  once 
been  a  veal  cutlet. 

He  smoked  two  pipes  after  his  dinner,  and  then  he  went 
around  to  the  Brasserie  Pigault.  For  fourteen  years 
he  had  gone  to  the  Brasserie  Pigault.  When  he  first  set 
up  his  bachelor  establishment,  he  had  resolved  to  stay  at 
home  nights,  and  for  a  month  or  two  the  Brasserie  had 
missed  him,  and  he  had  sat  in  his  green  rep  easy-chair, 
that  was  not,  and  never  could  have  been  meant  to  be  easy, 
before  his  meagre  little  hard-coal  fire.  But  it  was  not 
staying  at  home,  after  all ;  it  was  only  staying  in  the  house ; 
and  by  and  by  he  went  back  to  the  Brasserie  Pigault,  which 
was  a  home  indeed,  after  its  sort,  to  him  and  to  many 
another  lonely  bachelor. 

If  you  put  it  that  a  man  habitually  spends  his  evenings 
in  a  beer-shop  it  does  not  sound  well.  It  not  only  suggests 
orgies  and  deep  potations,  but  it  is  low.  One  thinks  of 
Robert  Burns,  of  the  police-reports,  of  neglected  wives 
waiting  at  home,  of  brawls  and  drunkenness  and  of  a  cheap 
grade  of  tobacco. 

This  is  largely  due  to  the  influence  of  a  number  of 

estimable  gentlemen  who  wander  about  this  broad  land, 

patronizing  second-class  hotels  and  denouncing  in  scathing 

terms  the  Demon  Drink.     They  sternly  refuse  to  admit 

123 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

any  distinction  between  one  place  where  liquor  is  sold  and 
another  place  where  liquor  is  sold.  Yet  I  think  the  most 
vehement  of  these  public-spirited  men  would  be  inclined 
to  acknowledge  that  there  is  a  bright  side  to  the  beer 
question  if  he  could  be  induced  to  pass  a  few  evenings,  non- 
professionally,  in  such  a  place  as  the  Brasserie  Pigault. 

True  he  could  not  see  there  the  red-eyed  contention 
that  furnishes  him  with  so  much  useful  oratorical  material. 
No  upraised  bludgeon,  no  gleaming  stiletto,  would  gladden 
his  eyes.  No  degraded  specimen  of  humanity  would 
point  a  prohibitionist's  moral  by  going  to  sleep  on  the  floor. 
No  ribaldry  would  agreeably  shock  his  expectant  ears. 

He  would  see  Mme.  Pigault,  neat  and  comely,  knitting 
behind  her  desk.  He  would  see  Mr.  Martin  and  M. 
Ovide  Marie  at  their  everlasting  game  of  dominos.  He 
would  see  little  Potain,  whose  wife  died  two  years  ago 
after  forty -seven  years  of  married  life,  and  who  would  be 
more  lonely  than  he  is,  if  it  were  not  for  Mme.  Pigault's 
hospitality,  drinking  his  one  glass  of  vermouth  gomme 
and  reading  all  the  papers  without  missing  a  column. 
He  would  see  poor  old  Parker  Prout,  the  artist,  who  has 
been  painting  all  day  long  for  the  Nassau  Street  auction 
shops  —  they  will  not  hang  Prout's  pictures,  even  at  the 
National  Academy  —  and  who  has  come  to  the  Brasserie 
Pigault  to  buy  one  glass  of  beer  for  himself,  and  to  wait 
and  hope  that  somebody  will  come  in  who  will  buy  another 
for  him.  He  would  see  good-natured  Jack  Wilder,  the 
bright  young  reporter  of  the  Morning  Record,  dropping 
in  to  perform  that  act  of  charity,  and  to  square  accounts 
by  mildly  chaffing  old  Prout  about  the  art  which  he  still 
loves,  after  forty  years  of  servitude  to  the  auctioneer  and 
the  maker  of  chromo-lithographs.  He  would  see  Dr. 
124 


The  Washington  Square    Neighborhood 

Peters  taking  his  regular  rations  —  two  glasses  of  lager, 
the  first  of  each  keg  —  and  studying  the  Courrier  to  keep 
up  his  French. 

And  on  this  particular  night  there  was  a  rare  guest  to 
be  seen  under  Mme.  Pigault's  roof,  for  Father  Dube  came 
in,  big,  ponderous  and  genial,  rubbing  his  fat  red  hands, 
and  smiling  a  sociable  benediction  upon  the  place  and 
all  within  it. 

Mme.  Pigault,  alert  and  flattered,  rose  to  welcome  him, 
and  he  unbuttoned  his  heavy  overcoat,  with  its  great  cape, 
and  leaned  on  the  desk  to  chat  with  her  for  a  moment. 
How  was  the  baby  and  little  Eulalie?  And  business  was 
always  good?  That  was  to  be  expected.  People  knew 
where  they  were  comfortable,  and  everybody  was  com- 
fortable chez  Mme.  Pigault.  And  now  he  saw  his  good 
friend  the  Doctor  sitting  there.  The  Doctor  looked  as  if 
he  would  like  a  little  game  of  dominos.  He  would  go 
and  challenge  his  good  friend  the  Doctor.  And  yes, 
why  not?  He  would  take  a  glass  of  that  excellent 
Chablis  of  Mme.  Pigault's,  that  he  had  tasted  when  he  had 
last  visited  Mme.  Pigault.  Was  it  so  long  ago  as  Easter? 
Ah,  but  the  time  goes!  and  an  old  man  is  slow.  He 
cannot  see  his  friends  as  often  as  he  could  wish.  And 
Mme.  Pigault  being  prosperous  and  blessed  by  heaven, 
has  no  need  of  him.  Ah,  the  Doctor  is  waiting.  And 
Mme.  Pigault  will  not  forget  the  Chablis? 

And  so  this  simple-minded  old  priest,  who  knew  no 
better  than  to  sit  down  in  his  parishioner's  brasserie  and 
take  a  glass  of  wine  and  play  a  game  of  dominos  with  a 
heretic,  lumbered  over  to  the  Doctor's  table,  and  struggled 
out  of  his  overcoat,  with  Louis's  help,  and  sat  down  op- 
posite his  good  friend  Peters.     And  Louis  bustled  eagerly 

125 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

about,  and  opened  a  new  bottle  of  the  Chablis,  and  brought 
the  box  with  the  best  dominos,  that  Mme.  Pigault  took 
from  her  desk;  and  cleaned  a  slate;  and  Mme.  Pigault 
looked  on  proudly  as  her  favorite  customer  and  her  spiritual 
guide  shuffled  and  drew. 

H.  C.  BuNNER  in  The  Midge 
Copyright,  1886,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

The  Astor  Place  Opera  House  Riot  <:>        "^^ 

TN  1826  Mr.  Edwin  Forrest  became  a  dramatic  star  of 
-*-  first  magnitude — puffed  everywhere  as  "the  Ameri- 
can tragedian."  In  1827  Mr.  William  C.  Macready  first 
visited  the  United  States,  starring  the  country,  playing 
alternate  engagements  with  Mr.  Forrest,  but  in  no  very 
decided  spirit  of  rivalry. 

In  1835  Mr.  Forrest  played  most  successfully  in  England ;^ 
in  1844  Mr.  Macready  again  visited  the  United  States. 
But  on  this  occasion  he  played  usually  in  cities  where 
there  was  more  than  one  theater  and  of  course  where  a 
rival  manager  immediately  sought  to  offset  the  new  at- 
traction by  the  best  talent  to  be  found  —  and  thus  almost 
invariably  Mr.  Forrest  played  against  him  with  the  heavy 
advantage  of  being  American,  so  that  the  tour  of  the  great 
English  actor  was  a  comparative  failure. 

A  degree  of  partisanship  was  everywhere  excited  which 
found  its  vent  in  the  next  professional  tour  which  Mr. 
Forrest  made  in  England.  A  strong  opposition  to  him 
he  charged  to  his  rival,  and  Mr.  Forrest  even  hissed  Mr. 
Macready's  performance  of  "Hamlet"  (because,  so  he 
said,  the  English  actor  had  "thought  fit  to  introduce  a 
fancy  dance")  in  Edinburgh. 

On  his  return  to  America,  Mr.  Forrest  freely  expressed 
126 


The  Washington  Square    Neighborhood 

the  feeling  that  he  had  been  unfairly  treated  in  England, 
and  Mr.  Macready's  appearance  in  Boston  in  1848  was 
greeted  by  the  first  of  many  bitter  newspaper  articles. 
Mr.  Macready's  contemptuous  allusion  to  this  article  nearly 
precipitated  social  war  in  New  York  when  Macready 
appeared  at  the  Opera  House  (then  at  Astor  Place)  while 
Forrest  was  acting  in  the  old  Broadway  Theater.  The 
storm,  however,  blew  over  and  expended  itself  in  Phila- 
delphia through  violent  and  vindictive  signed  "cards" 
which  must  have  "boosted"  the  circulations  of  the  Public 
Ledger  and  other  morning  papers  of  the  day,  but  had  no 
other  effect  except  to  harden  the  determination  of  Mr. 
Forrest's  friends  to  prevent  Mr.  Macready  from  ever 
playing  another  engagement  in  America.  In  May,  1849, 
Mr.  Macready  attempted  to  play  "Macbeth"  in  New  York 
and  was  hissed  from  the  stage  by  a  packed  audience.  Mr. 
Macready  supposed  the  engagement  ended,  but  his  friends 
and  the  enemies  of  Forrest  insisted  on  a  different  course. 
Influential  citizens,  headed  by  Washington  Irving,  pledged 
the  public  to  sustain  him. 

So  matters  stood  when  it  was  announced  that  he  should 
appear  again  on  the  loth  of  May.  Of  what  followed  we 
have  a  contemporary  account:  — 

"On  the  stage  of  the  Astor  Place  Opera  House  the  Eng- 
lish actor  Macready  was  trying  to  play  the  part  of  'Mac- 
beth,' in  which  he  was  interrupted  by  hisses  and  hootings, 
and  encouraged  by  the  cheers  of  a  large  audience  who 
had  crowded  the  house  to  sustain  him.  On  the  outside 
a  mob  was  gathering,  trying  to  force  an  entrance,  and 
throwing  stones  at  the  barricaded  windows.  In  the  house 
the  police  were  arresting  those  who  made  the  disturbance 
—  outside  they  were  driven  back  by  volleys  of  paving  stones. 
127 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  clamor  and  outrage  was 
heard  the  clatter  of  an  approaching  troop  of  horse.  'The 
military,  the  military  are  coming  !'  Further  on  was  heard 
the  quick  tramp  of  infantry  and  there  was  seen  the  gleam  of 
bayonets.  A  cry  of  rage  burst  from  the  mob,  inspired  with 
sudden  fury  at  the  appearance  of  an  armed  force.  They 
ceased  storming  the  Opera  House,  and  turned  their  volley 
of  paving  stones  against  the  horsemen.  Amid  piercing 
yells  men  were  knocked  from  their  horses,  the  untrained 
animals  frightened,  and  the  force  speedily  so  routed  that 
it  could  not  afterwards  be  rallied. 

"  Next  came  the  turn  of  the  infantry.  They  marched 
down  the  sidewalk  in  a  solid  column;  but  had  no  sooner 
taken  position  for  protection  of  the  house  than  they  were 
assailed  with  volleys  of  missals  (sic).  Soldiers  were 
knocked  down  and  carried  off  wounded.  Officers  were 
disabled.  An  attempt  to  charge  with  the  bayonet  was 
frustrated  by  the  dense  crowds  seizing  the  muskets  and 
attempting  to  wrest  them  from  the  hands  of  the  soldiers. 
At  last  the  awful  word  was  given  to  fire  —  there  was  a  gleam 
of  sulphurous  light,  a  sharp,  quick  rattle,  and  here  and 
there  in  the  crowd  a  man  sank  upon  the  pavement  with 
a  deep  groan.  Then  came  a  more  furious  attack  and  a 
wild  yell  for  vengeance !  Then  the  rattle  of  another 
death-dealing  volley,  far  more  fatal  than  the  first.  The 
ground  was  covered  with  killed  and  wounded  —  the  pave- 
ment was  stained  with  blood.  A  panic  seized  the  multitude, 
which  broke  and  scattered  in  every  direction. 

"  The  horrors  of  that  night  can  never  be  described.     The 

military,  resting  from  their  work  of  death,  in  stern  silence 

were  grimly  guarding  the  Opera  House.     Its  interior  was 

a  rendezvous  and  a  hospital  for  the  wounded  military  and 

128 


The  Washington  Square  Neighborhood 

police.  Here  and  there  around  the  building  and  at  the 
corners  of  the  streets  were  crowds  of  men  talking  in  deep 
and  earnest  tones  of  indignation.  There  were  little  pro- 
cessions moving  off  with  the  dead  or  mutilated  bodies  of 
friends  and  relations. 

"  The  result  of  that  night's  work  was  the  death  of  twenty- 
two  victims,  either  shot  dead  upon  the  spot  or  mortally 
wounded,  so  that  they  died  within  a  few  days;  and  the 
wounding  of  some  thirty  more,  many  of  whom  will  be 
maimed  for  life." 

From  a  contemporary  pamphlet 

The  Beginning  of  the  End  of  Lafayette  Place  (1880) 

IVTOT  many  years  ago  Lafayette  Place  was  one  of  the 
■^  ^  most  imposing  patrician  quarters  of  New  York. 
The  clamors  of  Broadway  came  to  it  only  in  a  dreamy 
murmur.  Its  length  was  not  great,  but  it  had  a  lordly 
breadth.  Within  easiest  access  of  the  most  busy  portions, 
its  quiet  was  proverbial.  So  infrequent  were  vehicles 
along  its  pavements,  that  in  summer  the  grass  would  often 
crop  out  there,  like  fringy  scrollwork,  near  the  well-swept 
sidewalks  and  cleanly  gutters.  At  one  end,  where  this 
stately  avenue  is  crossed  by  a  narrower  street,  rose  an  im- 
mense granite  church,  in  rigid  classical  style,  with  the 
pointed  roof  of  an  ancient  temple,  and  immense  gray  fluted 
pillars  forming  its  portico.  Then  at  this  southern  end 
stood  the  gray  old  grandeur  of  St.  Bartholomew's  where 
for  nearly  half  a  century  the  blooming  brides  of  our  "best 
families"  were  married  and  their  fathers  and  mothers  lay 
in  funeral  state  as  the  years  rolled  on.  At  the  northern 
end  was  a  spacious  dwelling  house  whose  oaken  hall,  with 
its  richly  mediaeval  carvings  and  brilliant  window  of  stained 

K  129 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

glass,  might  well  have  served  for  some  antique  abbey 
over  sea.  But  this  delightful  old  house  has  disappeared 
and  a  vast  brick  structure,  which  is  one  of  those  towering 
altars  that  we  so  often  build  to  commerce,  has  sprung  up 
in  its  stead.  There  was  also  a  certain  edifice  closely  ad- 
jacent to  this,  which  had  a  porte  cocJdre  in  the  real 
Parisian  style,  and  supplied  a  delightful  touch  of  foreign 
novelty.  But  that,  too,  has  disappeared;  like  the  house  with 
the  charming  cloistered  hall,  its  very  quaintness  was  its  ruin. 
But  Lafayette  Place  is  Lafayette  Place  still.  Its  trans- 
formation into  cheap  lodgments  is  gradual  though  sure. 
The  siege  goes  steadily  on,  but  the  besieged  have  not  yet 
succumbed.  Every  year  the  handsome  family  carriages 
that  roll  up  and  down  its  avenue  grow  fewer  and  fewer; 
every  year  its  pavements,  worn  by  the  feet  of  dead  and 
gone  Knickerbockers,  are  more  frequented  by  shabby 
Germans  or  slatternly  Irish.  But  the  solid  solemnity 
of  the  Astor  Library  still  draws  scholars  and  bookworms 
within  its  precinct,  though  the  dignity  of  possessing  the 
Columbia  Law  School,  into  which  slim,  bright-faced 
collegians  would  once  troop  of  a  morning,  has  now  de- 
parted forever.  And  a  few  abodes  are  still  to  be  found  here 
with  the  burnished  door  plates  and  the  glimpses  of  rich 
inner  tapestries  that  point  toward  wealthful  prosperity. 
Edgar  Fawcett  in  A  Hopeless  Case 
Copyright,  1880.     By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

The  Bread  Line       <::>        •<::^        -<;:>        ^c>        -::^ 

TT  was  eleven  o'clock  when  they  stepped  out  into 
-*-  the  winter  night.  Barrifield,  who  was  a  married 
man  and  a  suburban  Brooklynite,  took  the  South  Ferry 
car  at  Broadway.  The  other  three  set  their  faces 
130 


The  Washington  Square  Neighborhood 

north  in  the  direction  of  their  apartments.  Van  Dorn 
was  a  widower,  Perner  a  confirmed  bachelor,  and  Living- 
stone also  unmarried.  They  were  untrammeled,  there- 
fore, as  to  their  hours  and  habits.  .  .  . 

On  the  corner  of  Tenth  Street  they  halted.  Across  the 
way  there  was  a  long  line  of  waiting  men  that  extended 
around  the  corner  in  either  direction. 

"What's  that?"  exclaimed  Perner. 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  said  Van  Dorn.  "That's  the 
bread  line.  They  get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  loaf  of  bread  every 
night  at  twelve  o'clock.  Old  Fleischmann,  who  founded  the 
bakery,  made  that  provision  in  his  will.  They  begin  to  collect 
here  at  ten  o'clock  and  before,  rain  or  shine,  hot  or  cold!" 

"It's  cold  enough  to-night!"  said  Livingstone. 

They  drew  nearer.  The  waifs  regarded  them  listlessly. 
They  were  a  ragged,  thinly  clad  lot  —  a  drift-line  of  hunger, 
tossed  up  by  the  tide  of  chance. 

The  bohemians,  remembering  their  own  lavish  dinner 
and  their  swiftly  coming  plenitude,  regarded  these  un- 
fortunates with  silent  compassion. 

"I  say,  fellows,"  whispered  Livingstone,  presently,  "let's 
get  a  lot  of  nickels  and  give  one  to  each  of  them.  I  guess 
we  can  manage  it,"  he  added,  running  his  eye  down  the  line 
in  hasty  calculation. 

The  others  began  emptying  their  pockets.  Perner  the 
business-like  stripped  himself  of  his  last  cent  and  borrowed 
a  dollar  of  Van  Dom  to  make  his  share  equal.  Then  they 
separated  and  scoured  in  different  directions  for  change. 
By  the  time  all  had  returned  the  line  had  increased  con- 
siderably. 

"We'd  better  start  right  away  or  we  won't  have  enough," 
said  Livingstone. 

131 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

He  began  at  the  head  of  the  Hne,  and  gave  to  each  out- 
stretched hand  as  far  as  his  store  of  coins  lasted.  Then 
Van  Dom  took  it  up,  and  after  him,  Perner.  They  had 
barely  enough  to  give  to  the  last  comers.  The  men's 
hands  stretched  out  long  before  they  reached  them.  Some 
said  "Thank  you";  many  said  "God  bless  you";  some 
said  nothing  at  all. 

"There's  more  money  in  that  crowd  than  there  is  in  this 
now,"  said  Perner,  as  they  turned  away. 

"That's  so,"  said  Livingstone.  "But  wait  till  a  year 
from  to-night.  We'll  come  down  here  and  give  these 
poor  devils  a  dollar  apiece  —  maybe  ten  of  them." 

"Boys,  do  you  recollect  the  dinner  we  had  a  year  ago 
to-night?"     This  from  Livingstone. 

The  others  nodded.  They  were  remembering  that,  too, 
perhaps. 

"Then  the  bread  line  afterward?"  said  Perner.  "We 
gave  them  a  nickel  apiece  all  around,  and  were  going  to 
give  them  a  dollar  apiece  to-night.  And  now,  instead 
of  that—" 

"Instead  of  that,"  finished  Van  Dom,  "we  can  go  down 
to-night  and  get  into  the  line  ourselves.  Light  up,  Stony; 
we'll  take  a  look  at  your  picture,  anyhow." 

There  was  a  brisk,  whipping  sound  against  the  skylight 
above  them.  It  drew  their  attention,  and  presently  came 
again.     Livingstone  arose  hastily. 

"  Sleet ! " 

He  spoke  eagerly,  and  looked  up  at  the  glass  overhead. 
Then  he  added  in  a  sort  of  joyous  excitement : 

"Fellows,  let's  do  it !  Let's  go  down  there  and  get  into 
the  line  ourselves.  I've  been  waiting  for  this  sleet  to  see 
132 


The  Washington  Square   Neighborhood 

how  they  would  look  in  it.     Now  we're  hungry,  too.     Let's 
go  down  and  get  into  the  line  and  see  how  it  feels/" 

Van  Dom  and  Perner  stared  at  him  a  moment  to  make 
sure  that  he  was  in  earnest.  There  was  consent  in  the 
laugh  that  followed.  The  proposition  appealed  to  their 
sense  of  artistic  fitness.  There  was  a  picturesque  com- 
pleteness in  thus  rounding  out  the  year.  Besides,  as 
Livingstone  had  said,  they  were  hungry. 

They  set  forth  somewhat  later.  There  was  a  strong  wind 
and  the  sleet  bit  into  their  flesh  keenly.  It  got  into  their 
eyes  and,  when  they  spoke,  into  their  mouths. 

"I  don't  know  about  this,"  shouted  Van  Dom,  pres- 
ently. "I  think  it's  undertaking  a  good  deal  for  the  sake 
of  art." 

"Oh,  pshaw,  Van,  this  is  bully!"  Livingstone  called 
back.  He  was  well  in  advance,  and  did  not  seem  to  mind 
the  storm. 

Perner,  who  was  tall,  was  shrunken  and  bent  by  the  cold 
and  storm.     His  voice,  however,  he  lifted  above  it. 

"Art ! "  he  yelled.     "  I'm  going  for  the  sake  of  the  coflfee ! " 

The  line  that  began  on  Tenth  Street  had  made  the  turn 
on  Broadway  and  reached  almost  to  Grace  Church  when 
they  arrived.  The  men  stood  motionless,  huddled  back 
into  their  scanty  collars,  their  heads  bent  forward  to  shield 
their  faces  from  the  sharp,  flying  ice.  Strong  electric 
light  shone  on  them.  The  driving  sleet  grew  on  their 
hats  and  shoulders.  Those  who  had  just  arrived  found  it 
even  colder  standing  still.     Van  Dorn's  teeth  were  rattling. 

"Do  you  suppose  there's  always  enough  to  go  round?'' 
he  asked  of  Perner,  who  stood  ahead  of  him. 

Talking  was  not  pleasant,  but  the  waif  behind  him 
answered : 

133 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

"Wasn't  last  night.  I  was  on  the  end  of  the  line  and 
didn't  git  no  coffee.  Guess  there'll  be  enough  to-night, 
though,   'cause  it's  New  Year." 

"If  they  don't  have  cofifee  to-night,  I'll  die,"  shivered 
Perner.  .  .  . 

The  waif  from  behind  was  talking  again.  He  had 
turned  around  so  they  could  hear. 

"Last  New  Year  there  was  some  blokes  come  along  an' 
give  us  a  nickel  apiece  all  round.  I  was  on  the  end  an' 
got  two.  When  they  went  away  one  of  'em  said  they  was 
comin'  back  to-night  to  give  us  a  dollar  apiece." 

"They  won't  come,"  said  Perner. 

"Howd'  y'  know?" 

"We're  the  men." 

"Aw,  what  yeh  givin'  us?" 

"Facts.     We've  started  a  paper  since  then." 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine  in  The  Bread  Line 
Copyright,  igoo,  by  The  Century  Company 

Washington  Square  ^^^        ^^        ^^        ''^        <2y 

T^R.  SLOPER  had  moved  his  household  gods  up- 
^^  town;  as  they  say  in  New  York.  He  had  been 
living  ever  since  his  marriage  in  an  edifice  of  red  brick, 
with  granite  copings  and  an  enormous  fanlight  over  the 
door,  standing  in  a  street  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  the 
City  Hall,  which  saw  its  best  days  (from  the  social  point 
of  view)  about  1820.  After  this,  the  tide  of  fashion  began 
to  set  steadily  northward,  as,  indeed,  in  New  York,  thanks 
to  the  narrow  channel  in  which  it  flows,  it  is  obliged  to  do, 
and  the  great  hum  of  traffic  rolled  farther  to  the  right  and 
left  of  Broadway.  By  the  time  the  Doctor  changed  his 
residence,  the  murmur  of  trade  had  become  a  mighty  up- 
134 


The  Washington  Square  Neighborhood 

roar,  which  was  music  in  the  ears  of  all  good  citizens 
interested  in  the  commercial  development,  as  they  delighted 
to  call  it,  of  their  fortunate  isle.  Doctor  Sloper's  interest 
in  this  phenomenon  was  only  indirect  —  though,  seeing 
that,  as  the  years  went  on,  half  his  patients  came  to  be 
overworked  men  of  business,  it  might  have  been  more 
immediate  —  and  when  most  of  his  neighbors'  dwellings 
(also  ornamented  with  granite  copings  and  large  fanlights) 
had  been  converted  into  offices,  warehouses,  and  shipping 
agencies,  and  otherwise  applied  to  the  base  uses  of  com- 
merce, he  determined  to  look  out  for  a  quieter  home.  The 
ideal  of  quiet  and  of  genteel  retirement,  in  1835,  was  found 
in  Washington  Square,  where  the  Doctor  built  himself 
a  handsome,  modern,  wide-fronted  house,  with  a  big 
balcony  before  the  drawing-room  windows,  and  a  flight  of 
white  marble  steps  ascending  to  a  portal  which  was  also 
faced  with  white  marble.  This  structure,  and  many  of 
its  neighbors,  which  it  exactly  resembled,  were  supposed, 
forty  years  ago,  to  embody  the  last  results  of  architectural 
science,  and  they  remain  to  this  day  very  solid  and  honor- 
able dwellings.  In  front  of  them  was  the  Square,  contain- 
ing a  considerable  quantity  of  inexpensive  vegetation,  in- 
closed by  a  wooden  paling,  which  increased  its  rural  and 
accessible  appearance ;  and  round  the  corner  was  the  more 
august  precinct  of  the  Fifth  Avenue,  taking  its  origin  at  this 
point  with  a  spacious  and  confident  air  which  already 
marked  it  for  high  destinies.  I  know  not  whether  it  is 
owing  to  the  tenderness  of  early  associations,  but  this 
portion  of  New  York  appears  to  many  persons  the  most 
delectable.  It  has  a  kind  of  established  repose  which  is 
not  of  frequent  occurrence  in  other  quarters  of  the  long 
shrill  city;  it  has  a  riper,  richer,  more  honorable  look  than 
13s 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

any  of  the  upper  ramifications  of  the  great  longitudinal 
thoroughfare  —  the  look  of  having  had  something  of  a 
social  history.  It  was  here,  as  you  might  have  been  in- 
formed on  good  authority,  that  you  had  come  into  a  world 
which  appeared  to  ofifer  a  variety  of  sources  of  interest; 
it  was  here  that  your  grandmother  lived,  in  venerable 
solitude,  and  dispensed  a  hospitality  which  commended 
itself  alike  to  the  infant  imagination  and  the  infant  palate ; 
it  was  here  that  you  took  your  first  walks  abroad,  following 
the  nursery-maid  with  unequal  step,  and  sniflSng  up  the 
strange  odor  of  the  ailanthus-trees  which  at  that  time 
formed  the  principal  umbrage  of  the  Square,  and  difi'used 
an  aroma  that  you  were  not  yet  critical  enough  to  dislike 
as  it  deserved;  it  was  here,  finally,  that  your  first  school, 
kept  by  a  broad-bosomed,  broad-based  old  lady  with  a 
ferule,  who  was  always  having  tea  in  a  blue  cup,  with  a 
saucer  that  didn't  match,  enlarged  the  circle  both  of  your 
observations  and  your  sensations. 

Henry  James  in  Washington  Square 
Copyright,  1880,  by  Henry  James 

Another  View  of  Washington  Square  •'Cy        ^Qy 

TT  was  a  wretched  place,  stiffly  laid  out,  shabbily  kept, 
■*■  planted  with  mean,  twigless  trees,  and  in  the  middle 
the  basin  of  an  extinct  fountain  filled  with  foul  snow, 
through  which  the  dead  cats  and  dogs  were  beginning  to 
sprout  at  the  sohcitation  of  the  winter's  sunshine. 

A  dreary  place  and  drearily  surrounded  by  red  brick 
houses,  with  marble  steps  monstrous  white,  and  blinds 
monstrous  green  —  all  destined  to  be  boarding  houses 
in  a  decade. 

Theodore  Winthrop  in  Cecil  Dreeme 
136 


V 
THE   EAST   SIDE 


It  was  upon  Henry  James,  we  believe,  that  the  hard  in- 
tensity of  our  Ghetto  life  —  "all  formidable  foreground"  — 
produced  an  impression  like  that  of  a  long  street  of  tenements 
at  night,  —  and  in  each  window  the  glitter  of  a  candle  push- 
ing through  the  darkness.  The  fire-escapes,  too,  inevitably 
suggested  "a  spaciously  organized  cage  for  the  nimbler  classes 
of  animals  in  some  great  zoological  garden."  To  him  they 
suggested  an  "abashed  afterthought"  of  communications,  for- 
gotten in  the  first  construction,  by  which  the  inhabitants  lead, 
like  the  squirrels  and  monkeys,  the  merrier  life.  But  they 
may  as  well  suggest  the  degeneration  which  so  easily  comes 
a-creeping  wherever  the  fire-escape  of  the  tenement  stretches 
its  iron  tendrils  over  the  walls  of  the  city  street. 

Anon. 


THE  EAST  SroE 

A  Spring  Walk         ^c^'        '<ci>.        <:>^        -'Ci.'        -o 

IN  the  late  spring  John  and  Katharine  often  walked  to- 
gether of  an  afternoon,  between  half -past  five  and  sunset. 

They  went  about  together  in  unfrequented  places,  as 
a  rule,  not  caring  to  meet  acquaintances  at  every  turn. 
Neither  of  them  had  any  social  duties  to  perform,  and  they 
were  as  free  to  do  as  they  pleased  as  though  they  had  not 
represented  the  rising  generation  of  Lauderdales. 

The  spring  had  fairly  come  at  last.  It  had  rained,  and 
the  pavement  dried  in  white  patches,  the  willow  trees  in 
the  square  were  a  blur  of  green,  and  the  Virginia  creeper 
on  the  houses  here  and  there  was  all  rough  with  little  stubby 
brown  buds.  It  had  come  with  a  rush.  The  hyacinths 
were  sticking  their  green  curved  beaks  up  through  the 
park  beds,  and  the  little  cock-sparrows  were  scrapping, 
their  wings  along  the  ground. 

There  was  a  bright  youthfulness  in  everything,  —  in  the 
air,  in  the  sky,  in  the  old  houses,  in  the  faces  of  the  people 
in  the  streets.  The  Italians  with  their  fruit  carts  sunned 
themselves,  and  turned  up  their  dark  rough  faces  to  the 
warmth.  The  lame  boy  who  lived  in  the  house  at  the 
corner  of  Clinton  Place  was  out  on  the  pavement,  with 
a  single  roller  skate  on  his  better  foot,  pushing  himself 
along  with  his  crutch,  and  laughing  all  to  himself,  pale 
but  happy.  The  old  woman  in  gray,  who  hangs  about 
139 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

that  region  and  begs,  had  at  last  taken  the  dilapidated  woollen 
shawl  from  her  head,  and  had  replaced  it  by  a  very,  very 
poor  apology  for  a  hat,  with  a  crumpled  paper  cherry  and 
a  green  leaf  in  it,  and  only  one  string.  And  the  other 
woman,  who  wants  her  car-fare  to  Harlem,  seemed  more 
anxious  to  get  there  than  ever.  Moreover  the  organ- 
grinders  expressed  great  joy,  and  the  children  danced  to- 
gether to  the  cheerful  discords,  in  Washington  Square, 
under  the  blur  of  the  green  willows  —  slim  American 
children,  who  talked  through  their  noses,  and  funny  little 
French  children  with  ribbons  in  their  hair,  from  South 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  bright-eyed  darky  children  with  one 
baby  amongst  them.  And  they  took  turns  in  holding  it 
while  the  others  danced.   .  .  . 

But  Katharine  and  John  Ralston  followed  less  fre- 
quented paths,  crossing  Broadway  from  Clinton  Place  east, 
and  striking  past  Astor  Place  and  Lafayette  Place  —  where 
the  Crowdies  lived  —  by  Stuyvesant  Street  eastwards  to 
Avenue  A  and  Tompkins  Square.  And  there,  too,  the 
spring  was  busy,  blurring  everything  with  green.  Men 
were  getting  the  benches  out  of  the  kiosk  on  the  north  side, 
where  they  are  stacked  away  all  winter,  and  others  were 
repairing  the  band  stand  with  its  shabby  white  dome,  and 
everywhere  there  were  children,  rising  as  it  were  from  the 
earth  to  meet  the  soft  air  —  rising  as  the  sparkling  little 
air  bubbles  rise  in  champagne,  to  be  free  at  last  —  hundreds 
of  children,  perhaps  a  thousand,  in  the  vast  area  which 
many  a  New  Yorker  has  not  seen  twice  in  his  life,  out 
at  play  in  the  light  of  the  westering  sun.  They  stared 
innocently  as  Katharine  and  Ralston  passed  through  their 
midst,  and  held  their  breath  a  moment  at  the  sight  of  a  real 
lady  and  gentleman.  All  the  little  girls  over  ten  years  old 
140 


The  East  Side 

looked  at  Katharine's  clothes  and  approved  of  them,  and 
all  the  boys  looked  at  John  Ralston's  face  to  see  whether 
he  would  be  the  right  sort  of  young  person  to  whom  to 
address  an  ironical  remark,  but  decided  that  he  was  not. 
But  Katharine  and  John  Ralston  went  on,  and  crossed 
the  great  square  and  left  it  by  the  southeast  corner,  from 
which  a  quiet  street  leads  across  the  remaining  lettered 
avenues  to  an  enormous  timber  yard  at  the  water's  edge, 
a  bad  neighborhood  at  night,  and  the  haunt  of  the  class 
generically  termed  dock  rats,  a  place  of  murder  and  sudden 
death  by  no  means  unfrequently,  but  by  day  as  quiet  and 
safe  as  any  one  could  wish. 

They  stood  by  the  edge  of  the  river,  on  the  road  that  runs 
along  from  pier  to  pier.  Katharine  laid  her  hand  upon 
Ralston's  arm,  and  felt  how  it  drew  her  gently  close  to  him, 
and  glancing  at  his  face  she  loved  it  better  than  ever  in  the 
red  evening  light. 

The  sun  was  going  down  between  two  clouds,  the  one 
above  him,  the  other  below,  gray  and  golden,  behind 
Brooklyn  bridge,  and  behind  the  close -crossing  pencil  masts 
and  needle  yards  of  many  vessels.  From  the  river  rose  the 
white  plumes  of  twenty  little  puffing  tugs  and  ferry-boats 
far  down  in  the  distance.  Between  the  sun's  great  flattened 
disk  and  the  lover's  eyes  passed  a  great  three-masted 
schooner,  her  vast  main  and  mizzen  set,  her  foresail  and  jib 
hauled  down,  being  towed  outward.  It  was  very  still,  for 
the  dock  hands  had  gone  home. 

"I  love  you,  dear,"  said  Katharine,  softly. 

But  Ralston  answered  nothing.  Only  his  right  hand 
drew  her  left  more  closely  to  his  side. 

F.  Marion  Crawford  in  The  Ralstans 
141 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

An  East  Side  Wedding  Feast  <::>        •^^^        ^o 

STILL  brooding  over  the  enormous  possibilities  of 
the  future,  I  stopped  to  rest  and  refresh  myself  in 
a  modest  and  respectable  little  German  beer-saloon,  sit- 
uated on  the  tabooed  side  of  the  barbed-wire  fence  —  on 
the  very  borderland  between  low  life  and  legitimate  literary 
territory.  It  is  an  ordinary  enough  little  place,  with  a  bar 
and  tables  in  front,  and,  in  a  space  curtained  off  at  the  rear, 
a  good-sized  room  often  used  for  meetings  and  various 
forms  of  merry-making.  I  never  drop  in  for  a  glass  of 
beer  without  thinking  of  a  supper  given  in  that  back  room 
a  few  years  ago  at  which  I  was  a  guest.  ...  It  was  an 
actor  who  gave  the  supper  —  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
talented  of  the  many  foreign  entertainers  who  have  visited 
our  shores  —  and  nearly  every  one  of  his  guests  had  won 
some  sort  of  artistic  distinction.  It  is  not  the  sort  of  a  place 
that  suggests  luxurious  feasting,  but  the  supper  which 
the  worthy  German  and  his  wife  set  before  us  was,  to  me, 
a  revelation  of  the  resources  of  their  national  cookery. 
The  occasion  lingers  in  my  memory,  however,  chiefly  by 
reason  of  the  charm  and  tact  and  brilliancy  of  the  woman 
who  sat  in  the  place  of  honor  —  a  woman  whose  name  rang 
through  Europe  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  as 
that  of  the  heroine  of  one  of  the  most  sensational  duels  of 
modern  times.  .  .  .  Recollections  of  this  feast  brought 
to  mind  another  .  .  .  given  on  the  occasion  of  a  great 
wedding  in  a  quarter  of  the  town  which  plays  an  important 
part  in  civic  and  national  affairs  on  the  first  Tuesday  after 
the  first  Monday  in  November  —  one  in  which  the  trade 
of  politics  ranks  as  one  of  the  learned  professions  —  a 
quarter  where  events  date  from  the  reigns  of  the  different 
142 


The  East  Side 

police  captains.  The  bride  was  a  daughter  of  a  famous 
politician,  and  I  am  sure  that  in  point  of  beauty  and  taste- 
ful dress  she  might  have  passed  muster  at  Tuxedo.  She 
was  tall,  graceful,  and  very  young,  —  not  more  than 
seventeen.  One  could  see  traces  of  her  Hebrew  lineage 
in  her  exquisitely  lovely  face,  and  I  am  sure  she  was  well 
dressed,  because  she  wore  nothing  that  in  any  way  detracted 
from  her  rare  beauty  or  was  offensive  to  the  eye.  She 
had  been  brought  up  near  the  corner  of  the  Bowery  and 
Hester  Street,  in  the  very  center  of  one  of  the  most  vicious 
and  depraved  quarters  of  the  town ;  and  as  I  talked  with 
her  that  night  she  told  me  how  most  of  her  childhood  had 
been  spent  playing  with  her  little  brothers  and  sisters  in 
the  garden  which  her  father  had  built  for  them  on  the  roof 
of  the  house  in  which  they  lived,  and  on  the  ground  floor 
of  which  he  kept  the  saloon  which  laid  the  foundations  of 
his  present  political  influence.  She  spoke  simply  and  in 
good  English,  and  one  could  easily  see  how  carefully  she 
had  been  shielded  from  all  knowledge  even  of  that  which 
went  on  around  her.  An  extraordinary  company  had 
assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony  and  take  part  in  the 
festivities  which  followed,  and  as  I  sat  beside  two  brilliant, 
shrewd,  wordly-wise  Hebrews  of  my  acquaintance  we  re- 
marked that  it  would  be  a  long  while  before  we  could  expect 
to  see  another  such  gathering.  The  most  important  of  the 
guests  were  those  high  in  political  authority  or  in  the  police 
department,  men  whose  election  districts  are  the  modern 
prototype  of  the  English  "pocket  boroughs"  of  the  last 
century;  while  the  humblest  of  them  all,  and  the  merriest 
as  well,  was  the  deaf-and-dumb  bootblack  of  a  down-town 
police  court,  who  appeared  in  the  unwonted  splendor  of 
a  suit  which  he  had  hired  especially  for  the  occasion,  and 
H3 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

to  which  was  attached  a  gorgeous  plated  watch-chain. 
"Dummy"  had  never  been  to  dancing-school,  but  he  was 
an  adept  in  the  art  of  sliding  across  the  floor,  and  he  showed 
his  skill  between  the  different  sets,  uttering  unintelligible 
cries  of  delight  and  smiling  blandly  upon  his  acquaintances 
as  he  glided  swiftly  by  them.  .  .  .  For  three  hours  I  sat 
with  my  two  Israelitish  friends  —  a  pool-room  keeper  and 
a  dime-museum  manager  respectively  —  and  talked  about 
the  people  who  passed  and  repassed  before  us,  and  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  the  conversation  of  a  clever  New  York 
Jew  of  their  type  is  almost  always  edifying  and  amusing. 
"It's  a  curious  thing,"  said  one  of  my  companions  at  last, 
"but  I  really  believe  that  we  three  men  at  this  table  are  the 
only  ones  in  the  whole  room  who  have  any  sort  of  sense 
of  the  picturesqueness  of  this  thing,  or  are  onto  the  gang 
of  people  gathered  together  here.  There's  probably  not 
a  soul  in  the  room  outside  of  ourselves  but  what  imagines 
that  this  is  just  a  plain,  every-day  sort  of  crowd  and  not 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  collections  of  human  beings 
I've  ever  seen  in  my  life,  and  I've  been  knocking  round 
New  York  ever  since  I  was  knee-high.  There  are  thou- 
sands of  people  giving  up  their  good  dust  every  week  to 
go  in  and  look  at  the  freaks  in  my  museum,  and  there's  not 
one  of  them  that's  as  interesting  as  dozens  that  we  can  see 
here  to-night  for  nothing.  Just  look  at  that  woman  over 
there  that  all  the  politicians  are  bowing  down  to ;  and  they've 
got  a  right  to,  too,  for  she's  a  big  power  in  the  dis- 
trict and  knows  more  about  politics  than  Barney  Rourke. 
They  never  dared  pull  her  place  when  the  police  were 
making  all  those  raids  last  month.  Those  diamonds 
she  wears  are  worth  ten  thousand  if  they're  worth  a  cent. 
There's  a  man  who  wouldn't  be  here  to-night  if  it  wasn't 
144 


The  East  Side 

for  the  time  they  allow  on  a  sentence  for  good  behavior, 
and  that  fellow  next  him  keeps  a  fence  down  in  Elizabeth 
Street.  There's  pretty  near  every  class  of  New  Yorkers 
represented  here  to-night  except  the  fellows  that  write  the 
stories  in  the  magazines.  Where's  Howells?  I  don't 
see  him  anywhere  around,"  he  exclaimed,  ironically, 
rising  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke  and  peering  curiously 
about.  "Look  under  the  table  and  see  if  he's  there  taking 
notes.  Oh  yes,  I  read  the  magazines  very  often  when  I 
have  time,  and  some  of  the  things  I  find  in  them  are  mighty 
good;  but  when  those  literary  ducks  start  in  to  describe 
New  York,  or  at  least  this  part  of  it  —  well,  excuse  me, 
I  don't  want  any  of  it.  This  would  be  a  great  place, 
though,  for  a  story-writer  to  come  to  if  he  really  wanted  to 
learn  anything  about  the  town." 

James  L.  Ford  in  The  Literary  Shop 
Copyright,  18Q4.     By  permission  of  A.  Wessells  Company 

Cat  Alley      '^^        ''^^        ^^        'O        '^^^        "^^ 

/'^*AT  ALLEY  was  my  alley.  It  was  mine  by  right 
^~'  of  long  acquaintance.  We  were  neighbors  for  twenty 
years.  Yet  I  never  knew  why  it  was  called  Cat 
Alley.  There  was  the  usual  number  of  cats,  gaunt  and 
voracious,  which  foraged  in  its  ash-barrels;  but  beyond 
the  family  of  three-legged  cats,  that  presented  its  own 
problem  of  heredity,  —  the  kittens  took  it  from  the  mother, 
who  had  lost  one  leg  under  the  wheels  of  a  dray,  —  there 
was  nothing  specially  remarkable  about  them.  It  was 
not  an  alley,  either,  when  it  comes  to  that,  but  rather  a  row 
of  four  or  five  old  tenements  in  a  back  yard  that  was 
reached  by  a  passageway  somewhat  less  than  three  feet 
wide  between  the  sheer  walls  of  the  front  houses.  These 
L  145 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

had  once  had  pretensions  to  some  style.  One  of  them  had 
been  the  parsonage  of  the  church  next  door  that  had  by 
turns  been  an  old-style  Methodist  tabernacle,  a  fashionable 
negroes'  temple,  and  an  Italian  mission  church,  thus 
marking  time,  as  it  were,  to  the  upward  movement  of  the 
immigration  that  came  in  at  the  bottom,  down  in  the 
Fourth  Ward,  fought  its  way  through  the  Bloody  Sixth, 
and  by  the  time  it  had  travelled  the  length  of  Mulberry 
Street  had  acquired  a  local  standing  and  the  right  to  be 
counted  and  rounded  up  by  the  political  bosses.  Now 
the  old  houses  were  filled  with  newspaper  ofllices  and  given 
over  to  perpetual  insomnia.  Week-days  and  Sundays, 
night  or  day,  they  never  slept.  Police  headquarters  was 
right  across  the  way,  and  kept  the  reporters  awake.  From 
his  window  the  chief  looked  down  the  narrow  passageway 
to  the  bottom  of  the  alley,  and  the  alley  looked  back  at  him, 
nothing  daunted.  No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,  and  the 
chief  was  not  an  autocrat  to  Cat  Alley.  It  knew  all  his 
human  weaknesses,  could  tell  when  his  time  was  up 
generally  before  he  could,  and  winked  the  other  eye  with 
the  captains  when  the  newspapers  spoke  of  his  having  read 
them  a  severe  lecture  on  gambling  or  Sunday  beer-selling. 
Byrnes  it  worshipped,  but  for  the  others  who  were  before 
him  and  followed  after,  it  cherished  a  neighborly  sort  of 
contempt. 

In  the  character  of  its  population  Cat  Alley  was  properly 
cosmopolitan.  The  only  element  that  was  missing  was  the 
native  American,  and  in  this  also  it  was  representative  of 
the  tenement  districts  in  America's  chief  city.  The  sub- 
stratum was  Irish,  of  volcanic  properties.  Upon  this  were 
imposed  layers  of  German,  French,  Jewish,  and  Italian, 
or,  as  the  alley  would  have  put  it,  Dutch,  Sabe,  Sheeny,  and 
146  . 


The  East  Side 

Dago;  but  to  this  last  it  did  not  take  kindly.  With  the 
experience  of  the  rest  of  Mulberry  Street  before  it,  it  fore- 
saw its  doom  if  the  Dago  got  a  footing  there,  and  within  a 
month  of  the  moving  in  of  the  Gio  family  there  was  an 
eruption  of  the  basement  volcano,  reenforced  by  the  sani- 
tary policeman,  to  whom  complaint  had  been  made  that 
there  were  too  many  "Ginnies"  in  the  Gio  flat.  There 
were  four  —  about  half  as  many  as  there  were  in  some  of 
the  other  fiats  when  the  item  of  house  rent  was  lessened 
for  economic  reasons;  but  it  covered  the  ground :  the  flat 
was  too  small  for  the  Gios.  The  appeal  of  the  signora  was 
unavailing.  "You  got-a  three  bambino,"  she  said  to  the 
housekeeper,  "all  four,  lika  me,"  counting  the  number 
on  her  fingers.  "I  no  putta  me  broder-in-law  and  me 
sister  in  the  street-a.     Italian  lika  to  be  together." 

The  housekeeper  was  unmoved.  "Humph!"  she  said; 
"to  liken  my  kids  to  them  Dagos!  Out  they  go."  And 
they  went. 

It  had  been  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood  for  years  that 
the  alley  would  have  to  go  in  the  Elm  Street  widening  which 
was  to  cut  a  swath  through  the  block,  right  over  the  site 
upon  which  it  stood;  and  at  last  notice  was  given  about 
Christmas  time  that  the  wreckers  were  coming.  The 
alley  was  sold,  —  thirty  dollars  was  all  it  brought,  —  and 
the  old  tenants  moved  away,  and  were  scattered  to  the  four 
winds.  Barney  alone  stayed.  He  flatly  refused  to  budge. 
They  tore  down  the  church  ne.xt  door  and  the  buildings 
on  Houston  Street,  and  filled  what  had  been  the  yard,  or 
court,  of  the  tenements  with  debris  that  reached  halfway 
to  the  roof,  so  that  the  old  locksmith,  if  he  wished  to  go  out 
or  in,  must  do  so  by  way  of  the  third-story  window,  over 
a  perilous  path  of  shaky  timbers  and  sliding  brick.  He 
147 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

evidently  considered  it  a  kind  of  siege,  and  shut  himself 
in  his  attic,  bolting  and  barring  the  door,  and  making  secret 
sorties  by  night  for  provisions.  When  the  chimney  fell 
down  or  was  blown  over,  he  punched  a  hole  in  the  rear  well 
and  stuck  the  stovepipe  through  that,  where  it  blew  de- 
fiance to  the  new  houses  springing  up  almost  within  arm's 
reach  of  it.  It  suggested  guns  pointing  from  a  fort,  and 
perhaps  it  pleased  the  old  man's  soldier  fancy.  It  certainly 
made  smoke  enough  in  his  room,  where  he  was  fighting 
his  battles  over  with  himself,  and  occasionally  with  the 
janitor  from  the  front,  who  climbed  over  the  pile  of  bricks 
and  in  through  the  window  to  bring  him  water.  When 
I  visited  him  there  one  day,  and,  after  giving  the  password, 
got  behind  the  bolted  door,  I  found  him,  the  room,  and 
everything  else  absolutely  covered  with  soot,  coal  black 
from  roof  to  rafter.  The  password  was  "Letter!"  yelled 
out  loud  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  That  would  always 
bring  him  out,  in  the  belief  that  the  government  had  finally 
sent  him  the  long-due  money.  Barney  was  stubbornly 
defiant,  he  would  stand  by  his  guns  to  the  end ;  but  he  was 
weakening  physically  under  the  combined  effect  of  short 
rations  and  nightly  alarms.  It  was  clear  that  he  could 
not  stand  it  much  longer. 

The  wreckers  cut  it  short  one  morning  by  ripping  off 
the  roof  over  his  head  before  he  was  up.  Then,  and  only 
then,  did  he  retreat.  His  exit  was  characterized  by  rather 
more  haste  than  dignity.  There  had  been  a  heavy  fall 
of  snow  overnight,  and  Barney  slid  down  the  jagged  slope 
from  his  window,  dragging  his  trunk  with  him,  in  imminent 
peril  of  breaking  his  aged  bones.  That  day  he  disappeared 
from  Mulberry  Street.  I  thought  he  was  gone  for  good, 
and  through  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  had  set 


The  East  Side 

inquiries  on  foot  to  find  what  had  become  of  him,  when  one 
day  I  saw  him  from  my  window,  standing  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  key-ring  in  hand,  and  looking  fixedly 
at  what  had  once  been  the  passageway  to  the  alley,  but 
was  now  a  barred  gap  between  the  houses,  leading  nowhere. 
He  stood  there  long,  gazing  sadly  at  the  gateway,  at  the 
children  dancing  to  the  Italian's  hand-organ,  at  Trilby 
trying  to  look  unconcerned  on  the  stoop,  and  then  went 
his  way  silently,  a  poor  castaway,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. 

So  Cat  Alley,  with  all  that  belonged  to  it,  passed  out  of 
my  life.  It  had  its  faults,  but  it  can  at  least  be  said  of  it, 
in  extenuation,  that  it  was  very  human.  With  them  all  it 
had  a  rude  sense  of  justice  that  did  not  distinguish  its  early 
builders.  When  the  work  of  tearing  down  had  begun, 
I  watched,  one  day,  a  troop  of  children  having  fun  with  a 
see-saw  they  had  made  of  a  plank  laid  across  a  lime  barrel. 
The  whole  Irish  contingent  rode  the  plank,  all  at  once, 
with  screams  of  delight.  A  ragged  little  girl  from  the 
despised  "Dago"  colony  watched  them  from  the  corner 
with  hungry  eyes.  Big  Jane,  who  was  the  leader  by 
virtue  of  her  thirteen  years  and  her  long  reach,  saw  her  and 
stopped  the  show. 

"Here,  Mame,"  she  said,  pushing  one  of  the  smaller 
girls  from  the  plank,  "you  get  ofif  an'  let  her  ride.  Her 
mother  was  stabbed  yesterday." 

And  the  little  Dago  rode,  and  was  made  happy. 

Jacob  A.  Riis  in  The  Battle  with  the  Slum 

An  East  Side  Music  Hall     -o        <:iK        -c^^        -Oy 

A  N    orchestra    of    yellow     silk     women     and     bald- 
^  headed  men,  on  an  elevated  stage  near  the  center 
of   a   great   green    hued    hall,   played   a   popular   waltz. 
149 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

The  place  was  crowded  with  people  grouped  about  little 
tables.  A  battalion  of  waiters  slid  among  the  throng, 
carrying  trays  of  beer  glasses  and  making  change  from  the 
inexhaustible  vaults  of  their  trousers  pockets.  Little 
boys,  in  the  costumes  of  French  chefs,  paraded  up  and  down 
the  irregular  aisles  vending  fancy  cakes.  There  was  a  low 
rumble  of  conversation  and  a  subdued  clinking  of  glasses. 
Clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  rolled  and  wavered  high  in  air 
about  the  dull  gilt  of  the  chandeliers. 

The  vast  crowds  had  an  air  throughout  of  having  just 
quitted  labor.  Men  with  calloused  hands,  and  attired 
in  garments  that  showed  the  wear  of  an  endless  drudging 
for  a  living,  smoked  their  pipes  contentedly  and  spent  five, 
ten,  or  perhaps  fifteen  cents  for  beer.  There  was  a  mere 
sprinkling  of  men  who  smoked  cigars  purchased  elsewhere. 
The  great  body  of  the  crowd  was  composed  of  people  who 
showed  that  all  day  they  strove  with  their  hands.  Quiet 
Germans,  with  maybe  their  wives  and  two  or  three  children, 
sat  listening  to  the  music  with  the  expressions  of  happy 
cows.  An  occasional  party  of  sailors  from  a  war  ship, 
their  faces  pictures  of  sturdy  health,  spent  the  earlier  hours 
of  the  evening  at  the  small  round  tables.  Very  infrequent 
tipsy  men,  swollen  with  the  value  of  their  opinions,  engaged 
their  companions  in  earnest  and  confidential  conversation. 
In  the  balcony,  and  here  and  there  below,  shone  the  im- 
passive faces  of  women.  The  nationalities  of  the  Bowery 
beamed  upon  the  stage  from  all  directions. 

Pete  walked  aggressively  up  a  side  aisle  and  took  seats 
with  Maggie  at  a  table  beneath  the  balcony. 

"Two  beehs!" 

Leaning  back,  he  regarded  with  eyes  of  superiority  the 
scene  before  them.  This  attitude  affected  Maggie  strongly. 
150 


The  East  Side 

A  man  who  could  regard  such  a  sight  with  indifference 
must  be  accustomed  to  very  great  things. 

It  was  obvious  that  Pete  had  visited  this  place  many  times 
before,  and  was  very  familiar  with  it.  A  knowledge  of 
this  fact  made  Maggie  feel  little  and  new. 

He  was  extremely  gracious  and  attentive.  He  displayed 
the  consideration  of  a  cultured  gentleman  who  knew  what 
was  due. 

"Say,  what's  eatin'  yeh !  Bring  d'  lady  a  big  glass! 
What  use  is  dat  pony?" 

"Don't  be  fresh,  now,"  said  the  waiter,  with  some 
warmth,  as  he  departed. 

"Ah,  git  off  d'  eart' !"  said  Pete  after  the  other's  retreat- 
ing form. 

Maggie  perceived  that  Pete  brought  forth  all  his  elegance 
and  all  his  knowledge  of  high-class  customs  for  her  benefit. 
Her  heart  warmed  as  she  reflected  upon  his  condescension. 

The  orchestra  of  yellow  silk  women  and  bald-headed 
men  gave  vent  to  a  few  bars  of  anticipatory  music,  and  a  girl 
in  a  pink  dress  with  short  skirts,  galloped  upon  the  stage. 
She  smiled  upon  the  throng  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of 
a  warm  welcome,  and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro,  making 
profuse  gesticulations,  and  singing,  in  brazen  soprano 
tones,  a  song  the  words  of  which  were  inaudible.  When 
she  broke  into  the  swift  rattling  measures  of  a  chorus  some 
half-tipsy  men  near  the  stage  joined  in  the  rollicking  re- 
frain, and  glasses  were  pounded  rhythmically  upon  the 
tables.  People  leaned  forward  to  watch  her  and  to  try 
to  catch  the  words  of  the  song.  When  she  vanished  there 
were  long  rollings  of  applause. 

Obedient  to  more  anticipatory  bars,  she  reappeared  amid 
the    half-suppressed    cheering    of    the    tipsy    men.     The 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

orchestra  plunged  into  dance  music,  and  the  laces  of  the 
dancer  fluttered  and  flew  in  the  glare  of  gas  jets.  She 
divulged  the  fact  that  she  was  attired  in  some  half  dozen 
skirts.  It  was  patent  that  any  one  of  them  would  have 
proved  adequate  for  the  purpose  for  which  skirts  are  in- 
tended. An  occasional  man  bent  forward,  intent  upon 
the  pink  stockings.  Maggie  wondered  at  the  splendor 
of  the  costume  and  lost  herself  in  calculations  of  the  cost 
of  the  silks  and  laces. 

The  dancer's  smile  of  enthusiasm  was  turned  for  ten 
minutes  upon  the  faces  of  her  audience.  In  the  finale 
she  fell  into  some  of  those  grotesque  attitudes  which  were 
at  the  time  popular  among  the  dancers  in  the  theaters  up- 
town, giving  to  the  Bowery  public  the  diversions  of  the 
aristocratic  theater-going  public  at  reduced  rates. 

"Say,  Pete,"  said  Maggie,  leaning  forward,  "dis  is  great." 

"Sure!"  said  Pete,  with  proper  complacence. 

A  ventriloquist  followed  the  dancer.  He  held  two 
fantastic  dolls  on  his  knees.  He  made  them  sing  mournful 
ditties  and  say  funny  things  about  geography  and  Ireland. 

"Do  dose  little  men  talk?"  asked  Maggie. 

"Naw,"  said  Pete,  "it's  some  big  jolly.     See?" 

Two  girls,  set  down  on  the  bills  as  sisters,  came  forth  and 
sang  a  duet  which  is  heard  occasionally  at  concerts  given 
under  church  auspices.  They  supplemented  it  with  a  dance 
which,  of  course,  can  never  be  seen  at  concerts  given  under 
church  auspices. 

After  they  had  retired,  a  woman  of  debatable  age  sang 
a  negro  melody.  The  chorus  necessitated  some  grotesque 
waddlings  supposed  to  be  an  imitation  of  a  plantation  darky 
under  the  influence,  probably,  of  music  and  the  moon. 
The  audience  was  just  enthusiastic  enough  over  it  to  have 
152 


The  East  Side 

her  return  and  sing  a  sorrowful  lay,  whose  lines  told  of  a 
mother's  love,  and  a  sweetheart  who  waited,  and  a  young 
man  who  was  lost  at  sea  under  harrowing  circumstances. 
From  the  faces  of  a  score  or  so  in  the  crowd  the  self-con- 
tained look  faded.  Many  heads  bent  forward  with  eager- 
ness and  sympathy.  As  the  last  distressing  sentiment 
of  the  piece  was  brought  forth,  it  was  greeted  by  the  kind 
of  applause  which  rings  as  sincere. 

As  a  final  effort,  the  singer  rendered  some  verses  which 
described  a  vision  of  Britain  annihilated  by  America,  and 
Ireland  bursting  her  bonds.  A  carefully  prepared  climax 
was  reached  in  the  last  line  of  the  last  verse,  when  the  singer 
threw  out  her  arms  and  cried,  "The  Star-spangled  Banner." 
Instantly  a  great  cheer  swelled  from  the  throats  of  this 
assemblage  of  the  masses,  most  of  them  of  foreign  birth. 
There  was  a  heavy  rumble  of  booted  feet  thumping  the 
floor.  Eyes  gleamed  with  sudden  fire,  and  calloused  hands 
waved  frantically  in  the  air. 

After  a  few  moments'  rest,  the  orchestra  played  noisily, 
and  a  small,  fat  man  burst  out  upon  the  stage.  He  began 
to  roar  a  song,  and  to  stamp  back  and  forth  before  the  foot- 
lights, wildly  waving  a  silk  hat  and  throwing  leers  broad- 
cast. He  made  his  face  into  fantastic  grimaces  until  he 
looked  like  a  devil  on  a  Japanese  kite.  The  crowd  laughed 
gleefully.  His  short,  fat  legs  were  never  still  a  moment. 
He  shouted  and  roared  and  bobbed  his  shock  of  red  wig 
until  the  audience  broke  out  in  excited  applause. 

Pete  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  progress  of  events 
upon  the  stage.  He  was  drinking  beer  and  watching 
Maggie. 

Her  cheeks  were  blushing  with  excitement  and  her  eyes 
were  glistening.  She  drew  deep  breaths  of  pleasure.  No 
153 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

thoughts  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  coUar-and-cuflF  factory 
came  to  her. 

With  the  final  crash  of  the  orchestra  they  jostled  their 
way  to  the  sidewalk  in  the  crowd.  Pete  took  Maggie's 
arm  and  pushed  a  way  for  her,  offering  to  fight  with  a  man 
or  two.  They  reached  Maggie's  home  at  a  late  hour  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  gruesome  doorway. 

"Say,  Mag,"  said  Pete,  "give  us  a  kiss  for  takin'  yeh 
t'  d'  show,  will  yer?  " 

Maggie  laughed,  as  if  startled,  and  drew  away  from  him. 

"Naw,  Pete,"  she  said,  "dat  wasn't  in  it." 

"Ah,  why  wasn't  it?  "  urged  Pete. 

The  girl  retreated  nervously. 

"Ah,  go  ahn!"  repeated  he. 

Maggie  darted  into  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs.  She 
turned  and  smiled  at  him,  then  disappeared. 

Pete  walked  slowly  down  the  street.  He  had  something 
of  an  astonished  expression  upon  his  features.  He  paused 
under  a  lamp-post  and  breathed  a  low  breath  of  surprise. 

"Gee!"  he  said,  "I  wonner  if  I've  been  played  fer  a 

duffer." 

From  Maggie,  by  Stephen  Crane 

Copyright,  i8q6,  by  D.  Appleton  6r»  Co. 

Mulberry  Bend         "^^i"        "^^        -<;iy        <:>        •<::> 

*  I  TIE  Mulberry  Bend,  the  wicked  core  of  the  "bloody 
-*■  Sixth  Ward,"  was  marked  for  destruction,  and 
all  slumdom  held  its  breath  to  see  it  go.  With  that  gone, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  old  days  must  be  gone  too,  never 
to  return.  There  would  not  be  another  Mulberry  Bend. 
As  long  as  it  stood,  there  was  yet  a  chance.  The  slum  had 
backing,  as  it  were. 

IS4 


The  East  Side 

What  was  it  like?  says  a  man  at  my  elbow,  who  never 
saw  it.  Like  nothing  I  ever  saw  before,  or  hope  ever  to  see 
again.  A  crooked  three-acre  lot  built  over  with  rotten 
structures  that  harbored  the  very  dregs  of  humanity. 
Ordinary  enough  to  look  at  from  the  street,  but  pierced 
by  a  maze  of  foul  alleys,  in  the  depths  of  which  skulked 
the  tramp  and  the  outcast  thief  with  loathsome  wrecks 
that  had  once  laid  claim  to  the  name  of  woman.  Every 
foot  of  it  reeked  with  incest  and  murder.  Bandits'  Roost, 
Bottle  Alley,  were  names  synonymous  with  robbery  and  red- 
handed  outrage.  By  night,  in  its  worst  days,  I  have  gone 
poking  about  their  shuddering  haunts  with  a  policeman 
on  the  beat,  and  come  away  in  a  ferment  of  anger  and  dis- 
gust that  would  keep  me  awake  far  into  the  morning  hours 
planning  means  of  its  destruction.  That  was  what  it  was 
like.     Thank  God,  we  shall  never  see  another  such  !  .  .  . 

I  had  been  out  of  town  and  my  way  had  not  fallen  through 
Mulberry  Bend  in  weeks  until  that  morning  when  I  came 
suddenly  upon  the  park  that  had  been  made  there  in  my 
absence.  Sod  had  been  laid,  and  men  were  going  over 
the  lawn  cutting  the  grass  after  the  rain.  The  sun  shone 
upon  flowers  and  the  tender  leaves  of  young  shrubs,  and 
the  smell  of  new-mown  hay  was  in  the  air.  Crowds  of 
little  Italian  children  shouted  with  delight  over  the  "garden," 
while  their  elders  sat  around  upon  the  benches  with  a  look 
of  contentment  such  as  I  had  not  seen  before  in  that  place. 
I  stood  and  looked  at  it  all,  and  a  lump  came  in  my  throat 
as  I  thought  of  what  it  had  been,  and  of  all  the  weary  years 
of  battling  for  this.  It  had  been  such  a  hard  fight,  and 
now  at  last  it  was  won.  To  me  the  whole  battle  with  the 
slum  had  summed  itself  up  in  the  struggle  with  this  dark 
spot.  .  .  . 

155 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

In  fifteen  years  I  never  knew  a  week  to  pass  without 
a  murder  there,  rarely  a  Sunday.  It  was  the  wickedest, 
as  it  was  the  foulest,  spot  in  all  the  city.  In  the  slum  the 
two  are  interchangeable  terms  for  reasons  that  are  clear 
enough  for  me.  But  I  shall  not  speculate  about  it,  only 
state  the  facts.  The  old  houses  fairly  reeked  with  outrage 
and  violence.  When  they  were  torn  down,  I  counted 
seventeen  deeds  of  blood  in  that  place  which  I  myself 
remembered,  and  those  I  had  forgotten  probably  numbered 
seven  times  seventeen.  The  district  attorney  connected 
more  than  a  score  of  murders  of  his  own  recollection  with 
Bottle  Alley,  the  Why6  Gang's  headquarters.  Five  years 
have  passed  since  it  was  made  into  a  park,  and  scarce 
a  knife  had  been  drawn  or  a  shot  fired  in  all  that  neigh- 
borhood. Only  twice  have  I  been  called  as  a  police  re- 
porter to  the  spot.  It  is  not  that  the  murder  has  moved 
to  another  neighborhood,  for  there  has  been  no  increase 
of  violence  in  Little  Italy  or  wherever  else  the  crowd  went 
that  moved  out.  It  is  that  the  light  has  come  in  and  made 
crime  hideous.  It  is  being  let  in  wherever  the  slum  has 
bred  murder  and  robbery,  bred  the  gang,  in  the  past. 

Jacob  A.  Riis  in  The  Battle  with  the  Slum 

"My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side"    <::y        ^Ci^        •<::i' 

"/^^REEN    fields,    fair   forests,   singing  streams,  pine- 
^^  clad  mountains,  verdant  vistas  —  from  the  monot- 
ony  of   the  city  to  the  monotony  of  nature.     I  wanted 
a  complete  change,  and  so  I  went  to  the  East  Side  of 
New  York  for  my  vacation.     That  is  where  I  have  been." 
Thus  did  our  friend  explain  his  strange  disappearance 
and  unusual  absence  from  Boston  for  a  whole  week.     For 
the  first  time  since  he  came  here  from  New  York  he  had 
156 


The  East  Side 

been  missing  from  his  home,  his  regular  haunts,  such  as 
the  caf^s,  Jewish  book-stores  and  the  debating  club,  and 
none  of  those  whom  I  asked  knew  whither  he  had  betaken 
himself.  The  direct  cause  of  his  disappearance,  explained 
Keidansky,  was  a  railroad  pass,  which  he  had  secured  from 
a  friendly  editor  for  whom  he  had  done  some  work.  He 
went  on  explaining.  "I  wanted  to  break  away  for  a  while 
from  the  sameness  and  solemnness,  the  routine  and  re- 
spectability of  this  town,  from  my  weary  idleness,  empty 
labors,  and  uniformity  of  our  ideas  here,  so  when  the  op- 
portunity was  available  I  took  a  little  journey  to  the  big 
metropolis.  One  becomes  rusty  and  falls  into  a  rut  in 
this  suburb.  I  was  becoming  so  sedate,  stale  and  quiet 
that  I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of  myself.  The  revo- 
lutionary spirit  has  somewhat  subsided.  Many  of  the 
comrades  have  gone  back  on  their  ideas,  have  begun  to 
practise  what  they  preach,  to  improve  their  conditions  by 
going  into  business  and  into  work,  and  I  often  feel  lonely. 
Anti-imperialism,  Christian  Science  and  the  New  Thought 
are  amusing;  but  there  is  not  enough  excitement  here. 
Boston  is  not  progressive;  there  are  not  enough  foreigners 
in  this  city.  People  from  many  lands  with  all  sorts  of  ideas 
and  the  friction  that  arises  between  them  —  that  causes 
progress.  New  York  is  the  place,  and  it  is  also  the  refuge 
of  all  radicals,  revolutionaries,  and  good  people  whom  the 
wicked  old  world  has  cast  out.  America,  to  retain  its  orig- 
inal character,  must  constantly  be  replenished  by  hounded 
refugees  and  victims  of  persecution  in  despotic  lands. 
To  remain  lovers  of  freedom  we  must  have  sufferers  from 
oppression  with  us.  Sad  commentary,  this,  upon  our  hu- 
man nature;  but  so  are  nearly  all  commentaries  upon 
human  nature.  Commentaries  upon  the  superhuman 
157 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

are  tragic.  New  York  with  its  Germans  and  Russians 
and  Jews  is  a  characteristic  American  city.  Boston  and 
other  places  are  too  much  Hke  Europe  —  cold,  narrow 
and  provincial.  I  came  to  Boston  some  time  ago  because 
I  had  relatives  here  —  the  last  reason  in  the  world  why 
any  one  should  go  anywhere;  but  I  was  ignorant  and 
superstitious  in  those  days.  I  have  since  managed  to 
emancipate  myself,  more  or  less,  from  the  baneful  influences 
of  those  near;  but  meanwhile  I  have  established  myself, 
have  become  interested  in  the  movements  and  institutions 
of  the  community,  and  here  I  am.  The  symphony  con- 
certs, the  radical  movement,  the  library,  lectures  on  art, 
the  sunsets  over  the  Charles  River,  the  Faneuil  Hall 
protest  meetings  against  everything  that  continues  to  be, 
the  literary  paper  published,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Ga- 
maliel Bradford,  Philip  Hale  and  so  many  other  fixtures 
of  Boston  have  since  endeared  it  to  me  and  I  stayed.  Be- 
sides, it  would  cost  me  too  much  to  ship  all  my  books 
to  New  York.  .  .  .  But  this  time  I  wanted  a  complete 
change;  I  wanted  something  to  move  and  stir  me  out  of 
the  given  groove,  the  beaten  path  I  was  falling  into,  some 
excitement  that  would  shake  the  cobwebs  out  of  my  brain, 
so  I  turned  towards  the  East  Side. 

"They  are  all  there,  the  comrades,  the  radicals,  the  red 
ones,  and  dreamers ;  people  who  are  free  because  they  own 
nothing.  Poets,  philosophers,  novelists,  dramatists,  artists, 
editors,  agitators,  and  other  idle  and  useless  beings,  they 
form  a  great  galaxy  in  the  New  York  Ghetto.  For  several 
years,  ever  since  I  left  New  York,  I  had  been  receiving 
instruction  and  inspiration  from  them  through  the  medium 
of  the  Yiddish  and  the  Socialist  press,  where  my  own  things 
often  appeared  beside  their  spirited  outpourings,  and  now 
158 


The  East  Side 

I  was  overcome  by  an  overpowering  desire  to  meet  them 
again,  talk  matters  over  and  fight  it  all  out.  There  is  no 
sham  about  the  East  Side  branch  of  the  ancient  and  most 
honorable  order  of  Bohemians  —  the  little  changing,  mov- 
ing world  that  is  flowing  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
and  the  honey  of  fraternal  affections,  where  those  who  live 
may  die  and  those  who  die  may  live.  Here  among  the 
East  Side  Bohemians  people  feel  freely,  act  independently, 
speak  as  they  think  and  are  not  at  all  ashamed  of  their 
feelings.  They  have  courage.  They  wear  their  convictions 
in  public.  They  do  as  they  please,  whether  that  pleases 
everybody  else  or  not.  They  talk  with  the  purpose  of 
saying  something.  They  write  with  the  object  of  express- 
ing their  ideas.  They  tell  the  truth  and  shame  those  who 
do  not.  Hearts  are  warm  because  they  own  their  souls. 
Those  who  really  own  their  souls  will  never  lose  them.  .  .  . 
"I  cannot  tell  you  more,  but  these  meetings  and  these 
talks  at  various  times  and  in  various  places  made  my 
vacation  on  the  East  Side  delightful.  Then  there  were 
lectures  and  meetings  and  social  gatherings  of  the  com- 
rades. The  sun  of  new  ideas  rises  on  the  East  Side. 
Everywhere  you  meet  people  who  are  ready  to  fight  for 
what  they  believe  in  and  who  not  do  believe  in  fighting. 
For  a  complete  change  and  for  pure  air  you  must  go  among 
the  people  who  think  about  something,  have  faith  in  some- 
thing. Katz,  Cahan,  Gordin,  Yanofsky,  Zolotaroff, 
Harkavy,  Frumkin,  Krantz,  Zanetkin,  Zeifert,  Lessin, 
Elisovitz,  Winchevsky,  Jeff,  Leontief,  Lipsky,  Freidus, 
Frominson,  Selikowitch,  Palay,  Barondess,  and  many 
other  intellectual  leaders,  come  into  the  cai6s  to  pour  out 
wisdom  and  drink  tea,  and  here  comes  also  Hutchins 
Hapgood  to  get  his  education.  Each  man  bears  his  own 
159 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

particular  lantern,  it  is  true,  but  each  one  carries  a  light 
and  every  one  brings  a  man  with  him.  .  .  . 

"Why,"   added   Keidansky,   as  a  final  thunderbolt, 

"I  have  gained  enough  ideas  on  the  East  Side 

to  last  me  here  in  Boston  for  ten  years." 

Bernard  G.  Richards 

in  Discourses  of  Keidansky. 

By  permission 


i6o 


VI 

FROM   UNION  SQUARE   TO  MADISON 
SQUARE 


UNION  SQUARE 

WHEN  night  descends,  electric  argent  lamps, 
Like  radiant  cactus  blossoms,  blaze  on  high; 
The  city  seems  a  world  of  warlike  camps. 

While  Broadway  with  his  legions  thunders  by. 

Walter  Malone 


VI 

FROM  UNION   SQUARE  TO   MADISON 
SQUARE 

On  the  "Rialto"      ^c^        ^;^        ^;:iy        <>^        ^^ 

HE  was  one  of  those  wanderers  who  leave  their  homes  to 
try  their  fortunes  in  large  cities  and  who  go  from 
place  to  place  with  no  certain  means  of  earning  a  living 
but  with  a  resourceful  knowledge  of  how  to  support 
themselves  from  day  to  day.  He  had  begun  life  as  a 
hotel  clerk,  and  had  left  his  desk  to  sell  tickets  in  the 
box  ofl&ce  of  a  theater.  Then  he  had  gone  as  the  "press 
agent"  of  a  theatrical  company  "on  the  road,"  and  when 
the  failure  of  the  company  had  left  him  "stranded"  in 
a  Western  town,  he  had  done  some  newspaper  work, 
managed  a  news-stand  in  Chicago,  been  conductor  on  a 
street-car  in  St.  Louis,  worked  in  a  cigar  shop  in  Pittsburg, 
traveled  in  the  cabooses  of  freight  trains  to  New  England, 
"clerked  it"  in  Boston,  and  come  to  New  York  as  helper 
to  a  baggage  man  on  a  passenger  boat.  Here,  fascinated 
by  the  life  of  the  "Rialto"  —  which  satisfied  all  his  rest- 
less cravings  for  Bohemianism  and  continual  change  —  he 
had  lived  in  the  background  of  the  stage  world,  a  looker-on, 
playing  "thinking  parts,"  in  Broadway  theaters,  sometimes 
assisting  in  stage  management  in  the  cheaper  houses  and 
sometimes  returning  to  the  ticket  wicket  of  a  box  office. 
Lately  he  had  had  a  "run  of  bad  luck"  and  he  had  been 
left  for  the  summer  with  nothing  to  do  but  this  "boosting" 
163 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

and  "spieling"  at  Coney  Island,  or  on  the  Bowery.  He 
had  been  going  the  round  of  the  employment  agencies 
on  the  morning  he  met  Don.  "As  soon  as  the  theatrical 
season  opens,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  all  right."   .  .  . 

The  "Rialto,"  on  these  August  mornings,  was  the  resort 
of  all  the  actors  and  actresses  who  were  still  in  search  of 
an  engagement  for  the  "season";  and  Don  accompanied 
Walter  Pittsey,  from  agency  to  agency,  in  the  atmosphere 
of  a  life  that  was  new  to  him.  Here  were  the  leading  men 
of  road  companies,  bearing  themselves  with  an  obvious 
"stage  presence,"  dressed  in  the  correct  summer  costume 
of  the  footlights  and  preserving  the  unreality  of  the  stage 
in  the  very  faultlessness  of  clothes  that  had  the  appearance 
of  being  part  of  a  theatrical  "wardrobe."  Here  were 
comedians,  more  or  less  "low,"  who  carried  a  lighter  man- 
ner, a  necktie  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  a  straw  hat  slanted 
over  the  eyes,  a  hand  waved  in  an  airy  greeting  as  they 
hurried  by.  Chorus  girls  of  conspicuous  complexions,  in 
gowns  of  lace  and  appliqu^,  raised  their  dragging  skirts 
to  show  silk  petticoats  of  pink  or  green,  and  stared  through 
their  heavy  chiffon  veils  at  the  would-be  "ingenues"  in 
their  simple  frocks.  Soubrettes,  "heavies,"  "general 
utilities"  and  young  graduates  from  dramatic  schools, 
walked  haughtily  past  the  groups  of  untrained  and  awk- 
ward beginners  who  had  registered  —  as  Don  had  —  with 
the  agent  who  engaged  "supers."  And  they  all  passed 
and  repassed,  met  and  nodded,  bowed  and  shook  hands 
effusively,  in  a  way  that  reminded  Don  of  the  students 
in  the  college  corridors,  meeting  after  their  Christmas 
holidays,  hailing  friends  and  acknowledging  acquaintances. 
There  was  the  same  air  of  camaraderie,  tempered  by  the 
same  marked  distinction  of  distance  in  the  manner  of  the 
164 


From  Union  Square  to   Madison  Square 

upper  years  to  the  lower  ones ;  there  was  the  same  tone  of 
social  irresponsibility  in  the  circle  of  a  privileged  life; 
and  there  was  the  same  note  of  unreality  and  evanescence 
derived,  in  this  case,  from  the  exaggerated  manner  of 
these  Bohemians  who  "made  up"  for  the  street  as  if  for 
a  stage  entrance  and  walked  in  the  sunshine  as  if  it  had 
been  a  calcium  light. 

Harvey  J.  O'Higgins  in  Don- A -Dreams 
Copyright,  iqo6,  by  The  Century  Co. 

The  Art  and  Nature  Club  ^^        -vi'        -^Cy        -Qy 

"AT  the  Art  and  Nature  Club  you  can  dress  as  much 
•^  *■  or  as  little  as  you  please,  and  we  can  get  a  table 
in  a  cosey  comer,  and  afterwards  sit  about  upstairs  for 
an  hour,  for  there  will  be  music  to-night.  I  have  asked 
Martin  Cortright  to  join  us.  It  has  its  interesting  side, 
this  —  a  transplanted  Englishman  married  to  a  country 
girl,  introducing  old  bred -in -the -bone  New  Yorkers  to 
New  Manhattan." 

We  did  not  tell  Miss  Lavinia  where  we  were  going  until 
we  were  almost  there,  and  she  was  quite  upset,  as  dining 
at  the  two  or  three  hotels  and  other  places  affected  by  the 
Whirlpoolers  implies  a  careful  and  special  toilet  to  run  the 
gauntlet  of  society  reporters,  for  every  one  is  somebody 
in  one  sense,  though  in  another  "nobody  is  really  any  one." 
She  was  reassured,  however,  the  moment  that  she  drew 
her  high-backed  oak  chair  up  to  the  table  that  Evan  had 
reserved  in  a  little  alcove  near  the  fireplace.  Before  the 
oysters  arrived,  and  Martin  Cortright  appeared  to  fill  the 
fourth  seat,  she  had  completely  rela.xed,  and  was  beaming 
at  the  brass  jugs  and  pottery  beakers  ranged  along  a  shelf 
above  the  dark  wainscot,  and  at  the  general  company, 
i6s 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

while  the  warmth  from  the  fire  logs  gave  her  really  a  very 
pretty  color,  and  she  began  to  question  Martin  as  to  who 
all  these  people,  indicating  the  rapidly  filling  up  tables, 
were.  But  Martin  gazed  serenely  about  and  confessed 
he  did  not  know. 

The  people  came  singly,  or  in  twos  and  threes,  men  and 
women  together  or  alone,  a  fact  at  which  Miss  Lavinia 
greatly  marvelled.  Greetings  were  exchanged,  and  there 
was  much  visiting  from  table  to  table,  as  if  the  footing  was 
that  of  a  private  house. 

"Nice-looking  people,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  meditatively 
scrutinizing  the  room  through  her  lorgnette  without  a  trace 
of  snobbery  in  her  voice  or  attitude,  yet  I  was  aware  that 
she  was  mentally  drawing  herself  apart.  "Some  of  them 
quite  unusual,  but  there  is  not  a  face  here  that  I  ever  saw 
in  society.  Are  they  members  of  the  Club?  Where  do 
they  come  from?    Where  do  they  live?" 

Evan's  lips  shut  together  a  moment  before  he  answered, 
and  I  saw  a  certain  steely  gleam  in  his  eye  that  I  always 
regarded  as  a  danger  signal. 

"Perhaps  they  might  ask  the  same  question  about  you," 
he  answered;  "though  they  are  not  likely  to,  their  world 
is  so  much  broader.  They  are  men  and  women  chiefly 
having  an  inspiration,  an  art  or  craft,  or  some  vital  reason 
for  living  besides  the  mere  fact  that  it  has  become  a  habit. 
They  are  none  of  them  rich  enough  to  be  disagreeable  or 
feel  that  they  own  the  right  to  trample  on  their  fellows. 
They  all  live  either  in  or  near  New  York,  as  best  suits 
their  means,  vocations,  and  temperaments.  Men  and 
women  together,  they  represent,  as  well  as  a  gathering 
can,  the  hopeful  spirit  of  our  New  York  of  New  Manhattan 
that  does  not  grovel  to  mere  money  power." 
i66 


From   Union  Square  to  Madison  Square 

Miss  Lavinia  seemed  a  little  abashed,  but  Martin  Cort- 
right,  who  had  been  a  silent  observer  until  now,  said:  "It 
surprises  me  to  see  fraternity  of  this  sort  in  the  midst  of 
so  many  institutions  of  specialized  exclusiveness  and  the 
decadence  of  clubs  that  used  to  be  veritable  brotherhoods 
by  unwise  expansion.  I  like  the  general  atmosphere,  it 
seems  cheerful,  and,  if  one  may  blend  the  terms,  con- 
servatively Bohemian." 

"Come  upstairs  before  the  music  begins,  so  that  we 
can  get  comfortably  settled  in  the  background,  that 
I  may  tell  you  who  some  of  these  'unknown-to-Whirl- 
pool-society  '  people  are.  You  may  be  surprised,"  said 
Evan  to  Miss  Lavinia,  who  had  by  this  time  finished 
her  coffee. 

The  rooms  were  cheerful  with  artistic  simplicity.  The 
piano  had  been  moved  from  the  lounging  room  into  the 
picture  gallery  opposite  to  where  a  fine  stained-glass  win- 
dow was  exhibited,  backed  by  electric  lights. 

We  stowed  ourselves  away  in  a  deep  seat,  shaped  some- 
thing like  an  old-fashioned  school  form,  backed  and 
cushioned  with  leather,  to  watch  the  audience  gather. 
Every  phase  of  dress  was  present,  from  the  ball  gown  to 
the  rainy  weather  skirt,  and  enough  of  each  grade  to  keep 
one  another  in  countenance.  About  half  the  men  wore 
evening  suits,  but  those  who  did  not  were  completely  at 
their  ease. 

There  was  no  regular  ushering  to  seats,  but  every  one 
was  placed  easily  and  naturally.  Evan,  who  had  Miss 
Lavinia  in  charge,  was  alert,  and  rather,  it  seemed  to  me, 
on  the  defensive;  but  though  Martin  asked  questions,  he 
was  comfortably  soothing,  and  seemed  to  take  in  much  at 
a  glance. 

167 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

That  short  man  with  the  fine  head,  white  hair  and  beard, 
aquiline  nose,  and  intense  eyes  is  not  only  a  poet,  but  the 
first  American  critic  of  pure  literature.  He  lives  out  of 
town,  but  comes  to  the  city  daily  for  a  certain  stimulus. 
The  petite  woman  with  the  pretty  color  who  has  crossed 
the  room  to  speak  to  him  is  the  best  known  writer  of  New 
England  romance.  That  shy-looking  fellow  standing 
against  the  curtain  at  your  right,  with  the  brown  mustache 
and  broad  forehead,  is  the  New  England  sculptor  whose 
forcible  creations  are  known  everywhere,  yet  he  is  almost 
shrinkingly  modest,  and  he  never,  it  seems,  even  in  thought, 
has  broken  the  injunction  of  "Let  another  praise  thee,  not 
thine  own  lips." 

Half  a  dozen  promising  painters  are  standing  in  the  door- 
way talking  to  a  young  woman  who,  beginning  with  news- 
paper work,  has  stepped  suddenly  into  a  niche  of  fiction. 
The  tall,  loose-jointed  man  at  the  left  of  the  group,  the 
editor  of  a  conservative  monthly,  has  for  his  vis-a-vis  the 
artist  who  has  had  so  much  to  do  with  the  redemption  of 
American  architecture  and  decoration  from  the  mongrel 
period  of  the  middle  century.  Another  night  you  may 
not  see  a  single  one  of  these  faces,  but  another  set,  yet 
equally  interesting. 

Meanwhile  Martin  Cortright  had  discovered  a  man, 
a  financier  and  also  a  book  collector  of  prominence,  who 
was  reputed  to  have  a  complete  set  of  some  early  records 
that  he  had  long  wished  to  consult;  he  had  never  found 
a  suitable  time  for  meeting  him,  as  the  man,  owing  to  hav- 
ing been  oftentime  the  prey  of  both  unscrupulous  dealers 
and  parasitic  friends,  was  esteemed  difficult. 

Infected  by  the  freedom  of  his  surroundings,  Martin 
plucked  up  courage  and  spoke  to  him,  the  result  being 
1 68 


From   Union   Square  to   Madison  Square 

an  interchange  of  cards,  book  talk,  and  an  invitation  to 
visit  the  library. 

Mabel  Osgood  Wright  in  People  of  the  Whirlpool 


Mannahatta  ^::iK        <::>        o        <:y        -v>y        -"C^y 

T  WAS  asking  for  something  iSpecific  and  perfect  for  my 
city. 

Whereupon,  lo !  up  sprang  the  aboriginal  name. 

Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word,  liquid,  sane, 
unruly,  musical,  self-suflBcient, 

I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word  from  of  old. 

Because  I  see  that  word  nested  in  nests  of  water-bays, 
superb. 

Rich,  hemm'd  thick  all  around  with  sailships  and  steam- 
ships, an  island  sixteen  miles  long,  solid-founded. 

Numberless  crowded  streets,  high  growths  of  iron,  slender, 
strong,  light,  splendidly  uprising  toward  clear  skies, 

Tides  swift  and  ample,  well-loved  by  me,  toward  sun- 
down. 

The  flowing  sea-currents,  the  little  islands,  larger  adjoining 
islands,  the  heights,  the  villas, 

The  countless  masts,  the  white  shore-steamers,  the  lighters, 
the  ferry-boats,  the  black  sea-steamers  well-model'd, 

The  down -town  streets,  the  jobbers'  houses  of  business,  the 
houses  of  business  of  the  ship-merchants  and  money- 
brokers,  the  river-streets, 

Immigrants  arriving,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  in  a  week, 

The  carts  hauling  goods,  the  manly  race  of  drivers  of  horses, 
the  brown-faced  sailors. 

The  summer  air,  the  bright  sun  shining,  and  the  sailing 
clouds  aloft, 

169 


The   Wayfarer  in   New  York 

The  winter  snows,  the  sleigh-bells,  the  broken  ice  in  the 

river,  passing  along  up  or  down  with  the  flood-tide 

or  ebb-tide, 
The   mechanics   of   the   city,   the   masters,   well-form'd, 

beautiful-faced,  looking  you  straight  in  the  eyes, 
Trottoirs  throng'd,  vehicles,  Broadway,  the  women,  the 

shops  and  shows, 
A  million  people  —  manners  free  and  superb  — open  voices 

—  hospitality  —  the    most    courageous   and    friendly 

young  men, 
City  of  hurried  and  sparkling  waters  1  city  of  spires  and 

masts ! 
City  nested  in  bays !  my  city ! 

Walt  Whitman 

A  Philistine  in  Bohemia       <:i'        '^^^^        '^^^s'        o 

/^EORGE  WASHINGTON,  with  his  right  arm  up- 
^-^  raised,  sits  his  iron  horse  at  the  lower  corner  of 
Union  Square,  forever  signalling  the  Broadway  cars  to 
stop  as  they  round  the  curve  into  Fourteenth  Street.  But 
the  cars  buzz  on,  heedless,  as  they  do  at  the  beck  of  a  private 
citizen,  and  the  great  General  must  feel,  unless  his  nerves 
are  iron,  that  rapid  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Should  the  General  raise  his  left  hand  as  he  has  raised 
his  right  it  would  point  to  a  quarter  of  the  city  that  forms 
a  haven  for  the  oppressed  and  suppressed  of  foreign  lands. 
In  the  cause  of  national  or  personal  freedom  they  have 
found  a  refuge  here,  and  the  patriot  who  made  it  for  them 
sits  his  steed,  overlooking  their  district,  while  he  listens 
through  his  left  ear  to  vaudeville  that  caricatures  the  pos- 
terity of  his  proteges.  Italy,  Poland,  the  former  Spanish 
possessions  and  the  polyglot  tribes  of  Austria-Hungary 
170 


From  Union  Square  to  Madison  Square 

have  spilled  here  a  thick  lather  of  their  effervescent 
sons. 

Kate  Dempsey's  mother  kept  a  furnished-room  house  in 
this  oasis  of  the  aliens.  The  business  was  not  profitable. 
If  the  two  scraped  together  enough  to  meet  the  landlord's 
agent  on  rent  day  and  negotiate  for  the  ingredients  of 
a  daily  Irish  stew  they  called  it  success.  Often  the  stew 
lacked  both  meat  and  potatoes.  Sometimes  it  became  as 
bad  as  consommd  with  music. 

In  this  mouldy  old  house  Katy  waxed  plump  and  pert 
and  wholesome  and  as  beautiful  and  freckled  as  a  tiger 
lily.  She  was  the  good  fairy  who  was  guilty  of  placing 
the  damp,  clean  towels  and  cracked  pitchers  of  freshly 
laundered  Croton  in  the  lodgers'  rooms. 

You  are  informed  (by  virtue  of  the  privileges  of  as- 
tronomical discovery)  that  the  star  lodger's  name  was  Mr. 
Brunelli.  His  wearing  a  yellow  tie  and  paying  his  rent 
promptly  distinguished  him  from  the  other  lodgers.  His 
raiment  was  splendid,  his  complexion  olive,  his  mustache 
fierce,  his  manners  a  prince's,  his  rings  and  pins  as  mag- 
nificent as  those  of  a  travelling  dentist.   .  .  . 

"Sure,  I  like  him,"  said  Katy.  "He's  more  politeness 
than  twinty  candidates  for  Alderman,  and  he  makes  me 
feel  like  a  queen  whin  he  walks  at  me  side.  But  what  is 
he,  I  dinno?  I've  me  suspicions.  The  marnin'  '11  coom 
whin  he'll  throt  out  the  picture  av  his  baronial  halls  and 
ax  to  have  the  week's  rint  hung  up  in  the  ice  chist  along 
wid  all  the  rist  of  'em." 

"'Tis  thrue,"  admitted  Mrs.  Dempsey,  "that  he  seems 

to  be  a  sort  iv  a  Dago,  and  too  coolchured  in  his  spache 

for  a  rale  gintleman.     But  ye  may  be  misjudgin'   him. 

Ye    should    niver   suspect    any   wan   of    bein'   of    noble 

171 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

descint  that  pays  cash  and  pathronizes  the  laundry  rig'- 
lar." 

"He's  the  same  thricks  of  spakin'  and  blarneyin'  wid 
his  hands,"  sighed  Katy,  "as  the  Frinch  nobleman  at  Mrs. 
Toole's  that  ran  away  wid  Mr.  Toole's  Sunday  pants  and 
left  the  photograph  of  the  Bastile,  his  grandfather's  chat- 
taw,  as  security  for  tin  weeks'  rint." 

Mr.  Brunelli  continued  his  calorific  wooing.  Katy  con- 
tinued to  hesitate.  One  day  he  asked  her  out  to  dine,  and 
she  felt  that  a  denouement  was  in  the  air.  While  they  are 
on  their  way,  with  Katy  in  her  best  muslin,  you  must  take 
as  an  entr'acte  a  brief  peep  at  New  York's  Bohemia. 

'Tonio's  restaurant  is  in  Bohemia.  The  very  location 
of  it  is  secret.  If  you  wish  to  know  where  it  is  ask  the 
first  person  you  meet.  He  will  tell  you  in  a  whisper. 
'Tonio  discountenances  custom;  he  keeps  his  house- 
front  black  and  forbidding;  he  gives  you  a  pretty  bad 
dinner;  he  locks  his  door  at  the  dining  hour;  but  he 
knows  spaghetti  as  the  boarding-house  knows  cold  veal; 
and  —  he  has  deposited  many  dollars  in  a  certain  Banco 
di  —  something  with  many  gold  vowels  in  the  name  on 
its  windows. 

To  this  restaurant  Mr.  Brunelli  conducted  Katy.  The 
house  was  dark  and  the  shades  were  lowered;  but  Mr. 
Brunelli  touched  an  electric  button  by  the  basement  door, 
and  they  were  admitted. 

Along  a  long,  dark,  narrow  hallway  they  went  and 
then  through  a  shining  and  spotless  kitchen  that  of)ened 
directly  upon  a  back  yard. 

The  walls  of  houses  hemmed  three  sides  of  the  yard; 
a  high,  broad  fence,  surrounded  by  cats,  the  other.  A  wash 
of  clothes  was  suspended  high  upon  a  line  stretched  from 
172 


From   Union  Square  to  Madison  Square 

diagonal  corners.  Those  were  property  clothes,  and  were 
never  taken  in  by  'Tonio.  They  were  there  that  wits 
with  defective  pronunciation  might  make  puns  in  con- 
nection with  the  ragout.   .   .  . 

Mr.  Brunelli  escorted  Katy  to  a  little  table  embowered 
with  shrubbery  in  tubs,  and  asked  her  to  excuse  him  for 
a  while. 

Katy  sat  enchanted  by  a  scene  so  brilliant  to  her.  The 
grand  ladies,  in  splendid  dresses  and  plumes  and  sparkling 
rings;  the  fine  gentlemen  who  laughed  so  loudly,  the  cries 
of  "Garsong!"  and  "We,  monseer,"  and  "Hello,  Mame!" 
that  distinguish  Bohemia;  the  lively  chatter,  the  cigarette 
smoke,  the  interchange  of  bright  smiles  and  eye-glances  — 
all  this  display  and  magnificence  overpowered  the  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Dempsey  and  held  her  motionless. 

Mr.  Brunelli  stepped  into  the  yard  and  seemed  to  spread 
his  smile  and  bow  over  the  entire  company.  And  every- 
where there  was  a  great  clapping  of  hands  and  a  few  cries 
of  "Bravo!"  and  "'Tonio!  'Tonio!"  whatever  those 
words  might  mean.  Ladies  waved  their  napkins  at  him, 
gentlemen  almost  twisted  their  necks  off,  trying  to  catch 
his  nod. 

When  the  ovation  was  concluded  Mr.  Brunelli,  with 
a  final  bow,  stepped  nimbly  into  the  kitchen  and  flung  off 
his  coat  and  waistcoat. 

Flaherty,  the  nimblest  "garsong"  among  the  waiters, 
had  been  assigned  to  the  special  service  of  Katy.  She  was 
a  little  faint  from  hunger,  for  the  Irish  stew  on  the  Dempsey 
table  had  been  particularly  weak  that  day.  Delicious  odors 
from  unknown  dishes  tantalized  her.  And  Flaherty  began 
to  bring  to  her  table  course  after  course  of  ambrosial  food 
that  the  gods  might  have  pronounced  excellent. 
173 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

But  even  in  the  midst  of  her  Lucullian  repast  Katy  laid 
down  her  knife  and  fork.  Her  heart  sank  as  lead,  and  a 
tear  fell  upon  her  filet  mignon.  Her  haunting  suspicions 
of  the  star  lodger  arose  again,  fourfold.  Thus  courted 
and  admired  and  smiled  upon  by  that  fashionable  and 
gracious  assembly,  what  else  could  Mr.  Brunelli  be  but 
one  of  those  dazzling  titled  patricians,  glorious  of  name 
but  shy  of  rent  money,  concerning  whom  experience  had 
made  her  wise?  With  a  sense  of  his  ineligibility  growing 
within  her  there  was  mingled  a  torturing  conviction  that 
his  personality  was  becoming  more  pleasing  to  her  day 
by  day.     And  why  had  he  left  her  to  dine  alone?  .  .   . 

At  last  the  company  thinned,  leaving  but  few  couples 
and  quartettes  lingering  over  new  wine  and  old  stories. 
And  then  came  Mr.  Brunelli  to  Katy's  secluded  table, 
and  drew  a  chair  close  to  hers. 

Katy  smiled  at  him  dreamily.  She  was  eating  the  last 
spoonful  of  a  raspberry  roll  with  Burgundy  sauce. 

"You  have  seen!"  said  Mr.  Brunelli,  laying  one  hand 
upon  his  collar  bone.  "I  am  Antonio  Brunelli!  Yes; 
I  am  the  great  'Tonio  1  You  have  not  suspect  that !  I  loave 
you,  Katy,  and  you  shall  marry  with  me.  Is  it  not  so? 
Call  me  'Antonio,'  and  say  that  you  will  be  mine." 

Katy's  head  dropped  to  the  shoulder  that  was  now 
freed  from  all  suspicion  of  having  received  the  knightly 
accolade. 

"Oh,  Andy,"  she  sighed,  "this  is  great!  Sure,  I'll 
marry  wid  ye.  But  why  didn't  ye  tell  me  ye  was  the  cook? 
I  was  near  turnin'  ye  down  for  being  one  of  thim  foreign 
counts!" 

O.  Henry  in  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Copyright,  igo8.     By  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page  &=  Co. 

174 


From  Union  Square  to  Madison  Square 

At  the  Old  Bull's  Head,  1878  ^;:y        ^:>        ^:^ 

NEW  YORKERS  who  were  of  the  rising  generation 
twenty-five  and  thirty  years  ago,  recall  a  burly  phrase, 
now  obsolete,  then  passing  current  in  the  gossip  of  their 
elders;  as  when  some  retailer  of  scandal  would  say:  "But 
you  mayn't  tell  So-and-so  of  it,  or  it  will  be  known 
before  night  from  Bull's  Head  to  the  Battery."  Many 
whose  ears  were  wonted  to  this  phrase  in  childhood, 
never  understood  its  local  origin  and  literal  meaning. 
Yet  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Bull's  Head  Tavern 
with  its  cattle-market  had  been  one  of  the  institutions  of 
Manhattan,  —  the  main  outpost  of  the  city  in  its  steady 
march  northward  to  the  Harlem  River. 

Respect  for  the  pleading  relics  of  the  past  is  growing 
in  New  York,  if  even  one  out  of  a  thousand  journeying 
every  quarter  hour  on  Third  Avenue,  sees  anything  to 
awaken  a  pleasant  thought  at  Twenty-Fourth  Street,  where, 
looking  westward,  the  eye  is  arrested  by  two  long  rows  of 
mostly  mean,  low  stables  bordering  a  badly  paved  and 
littered  street,  before  it  can  reach  a  charming  background 
picture  formed  of  the  foliage  and  stately  edifices  of  Madison 
Square.  Turning  eastward  more  stables  form  an  un- 
pleasant foreground  to  the  sail-studded  waters  of  the  East 
River.  There  on  the  northwest  corner  stands  the  presiding 
genius  of  this  unkempt  scene.  Old  Bull's  Head  Tavern, 
brown,  angular  and  homely.  Only  an  etching  could 
catch  the  elusive  charm  of  this  weather-beaten  structure. 
The  more  minutely  it  is  described,  the  homelier  it  will 
appear. 

In  the  earlier  periods  of  new  communities,  the  old 
butchers'  association  had  the  pompous  airs  of  an  Antwerp 
Guild.  In  all  civic  festivals  it  was  an  indispensable  factor, 
175 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

and  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  great  federal  procession 
of  July  23,  1788. 

Bull's  Head  Tavern  advanced  gradually  to  its  present 
position  in  Twenty-Fourth  Street.  A  little  more  than  two 
hundred  years  ago,  when  Peter  Stuyvesant's  wooden  leg 
thumped  across  the  floors  of  the  Stadt  Huys  in  Whitehall, 
the  livestock  market  adjoined  Trinity  churchyard.  Years 
afterward  a  drover's  inn  was  built  at  the  gates  of  the  city, 
on  the  present  site  of  the  Astor  House,  where  from  1720  till 
1740  Adam  Van  der  Bergh,  a  genial  host,  discussed  cattle 
and  small  ale  with  the  drovers.  Bull's  Head  in  the  Bowery, 
with  Stephen  Carpenter  as  host,  and  standing  where  the 
Bowery  Theater  now  is,  was  the  last  halting  place  for  the 
stages,  before  the  gallant  six  were  whipped  down  Chatham 
Square  and  up  Chatham  Street  to  enter  the  city  with  dash 
and  clatter.  .  .  . 

About  the  year  1825  the  butchers*  association  purchased 
two  blocks  of  ground  on  Twenty-Fourth  Street  between 
Third  and  Lexington  Avenues,  and  converted  the  space 
into  cattle  yards,  Thomas  Swift  of  Poughkeepsie  at  the 
same  time  building  Bull's  Head  Tavern.  He  was  not  a 
successful  tavern  keeper  and  rented  the  hostelry  to  David 
Valentine.  The  latter  also  abdicated  about  1820  in  favor 
of  Daniel  Drew.  The  reign  of  "Uncle  Dan'l,"  as  he  was 
called,  was  the  golden  age  at  Bull's  Head.  The  old  sign- 
board swung  from  a  post  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and 
underneath  it  hung  the  cheerful  dinner  bell.  A  low  Dutch 
stable  stood  beyond,  and  in  front  of  this  a  wooden  pump 
and  trough.  Cattle  pens  filled  the  remaining  space  to 
Lexington  Avenue  and  also  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

At  that  time  Third  Avenue  was  macadamized  from 
Eighth  Street  to  Spark's  Four  Mile  House  at  Sixtieth 
176 


From  Union  Square  to  Madison  Square 

Street,  the  two  miles  between  the  latter  being  the  finest 
drive   on   Manhattan   Island.  .  .  . 

In  1848,  the  cattle  market  was  warned  by  the  encroaching 
population  to  move  on.  When  the  butchers  and  drovers 
withdrew  from  Bull's  Head  in  Twenty-Fourth  Street,  the 
horse-dealers  eagerly  took  possession,  making  it  the  equine 
capital  of  this  continent,  and  perhaps  of  the  world. 

C.  C.  BUEL 

Scribner's  Monthly,  January,  1879 

The  Social  Map       ^^^        -*^:i>'        ''^        ^'^        -Qy 

A  MONG  the  many  peculiarities  which  contribute  to 
•^  ^  make  New  York  unlike  other  cities  is  the  construc- 
tion of  what  may  be  called  its  social  map.  As  in  the 
puzzles  used  in  teaching  children  geography,  all  the  pieces 
are  of  diflferent  shapes,  different  sizes  and  different  colors ; 
but  they  fit  neatly  together  in  the  compact  whole  though 
the  lines  which  define  each  bit  are  distinctly  visible,  especially 
when  the  map  has  been  long  used  by  the  industrious  child. 
What  calls  itself  society  everywhere  else  calls  itself  society 
in  New  York  also,  but  whereas  in  European  cities  one 
instinctively  speaks  of  the  social  scale,  one  familiar  with 
New  York  people  will  be  much  more  inclined  to  speak  of 
the  social  map.  I  do  not  mean  to  hint  that  society  here 
exists  on  a  dead  level,  but  the  absence  of  tradition,  of  all 
acknowledged  precedents  and  of  all  outward  and  perceptible 
distinctions  makes  it  quite  impossible  to  define  the  position 
of  any  one  set  in  regard  to  another  by  the  ordinary  scale 
of  superiority  or  inferiority.  In  London  or  Paris,  for 
instance,  ambitious  persons  are  spoken  of  as  climbing;  in 
New  York  it  would  be  more  correct  to  speak  of  them  as 
migrating  or  attempting  to  migrate  from  one  social  field 
N  177 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

to  the  next.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  fields  real  or 
metaphorical  yielding  more  different  growths  under  the 
same  sky. 

F.  Marion  Crawford  in  Marion  Darche 


To  the  Farragut  Statue      '•c^y        'Oy         <>y        -«;^ 

^O  live  a  hero,  then  to  stand 
In  bronze  serene  above  the  city's  throng; 
Hero  at  sea,  and  now  on  land 

Revered  by  thousands  as  they  rush  along; 


T 


If  these  were  all  the  gifts  of  fame  — 

To  be  a  shade  amid  alert  reality, 
And  win  a  statue  and  a  name  — 

How  cold  and  cheerless  immortality! 

But  when  the  sun  shines  in  the  Square, 
And  multitudes  are  swarming  in  the  street, 

Children  are  always  gathered  there, 
Laughing  and  playing  round  the  hero's  feet. 

And  in  the  crisis  of  the  game  — 

With  boyish  grit  and  ardor  it  is  played  — 

You'll  hear  some  youngster  call  his  name: 
"The  Admiral  —  he  never  was  afraid!" 

And  so  the  hero  daily  lives, 

And  boys  grow  braver  as  the  Man  they  see ! 
The  inspiration  that  he  gives 

Still  helps  to  make  them  loyal,  strong,  and  free! 

Robert  Bridges  in  Bramble  Brae 
Copyright,  igo2,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
178 


From   Union   Square  to   Madison   Square 

Madison  Square  Garden       ^v>        -<:>        •^:>        ^^^y 

TF  there  is  any  more  beautiful  temple  of  pleasure  in  the 
■^  world  than  Madison  Square  Garden,  it  must  be  in  some 
of  the  undiscovered  regions,  for  it  has  not  yet  been  seen 
by  civilized  men  trying  to  forget  civilization. 

What  forms  of  amusement  has  the  New  Yorker  not  seen 
in  this  microcosm?  Here  he  is  brought  as  a  child  to  see 
the  Greatest  Show  on  Earth  on  a  greater  scale  than  in 
any  tent  —  though  not  so  easy  to  crawl  under.  Here  the 
menagerie  has  overwhelmed  him  with  its  animals  almost 
as  fearful  and  wonderful  as  the  menagerie  of  adjectives 
Tony  Hamilton  has  gathered  out  of  the  backwoods  of 
the  dictionary.  That  complicated,  noisy  menagerie  smell 
has  dislocated  his  nose,  as  later  the  three-ring  circus  has 
dislocated  his  eyes. 

Playing  so  important  a  part  in  the  New  York  child's 
education,  it  is  small  wonder  he  loves  it  when  he  is  grown. 
And  it  grows  with  him;  for  when  the  circus  is  over,  he 
goes  to  the  Dog  Show,  and  gets  deliciously  frightened  out 
of  his  wits  by  the  barking  of  a  thousand  canines,  leaping 
and  tugging  at  their  chains,  and  thrusting  their  heads  out 
to  bite,  or,  what  is  worse,  to  lather  him  with  their  impartial 
tongues.  His  little  sister  is  taken  to  the  Cat  Show,  where 
the  priceless  Angoras  doze  and  purr,  and  where  the  town's 
practical  joker,  Bryan  G.  Hughes,  once  took  first  prize  with 
a  common  tomcat  picked  up  in  the  gutter.  Once  a  year 
the  Garden  calls  in  all  the  country  cousins  and  the  farmers, 
real  or  amateur,  to  see  the  Poultry  Show,  where  lovers  of 
the  Plymouth  Rock  can  quarrel  with  the  devotees  of  the 
Brahma  and  the  Cochin  China,  and  where  the  gamecocks 
and  the  featherweight  bantams  challenge  one  another  to 
mortal  combat  all  day  long  in  safety. 
179 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

When  the  New  Yorker  grows  older  he  probably  joins  a 
regiment  —  Squadron  A,  or  the  Seventh  if  he  has  the  price 
—  one  of  the  others  otherwise.  The  Military  Tourna- 
ment draws  him  to  the  Garden  next,  and  his  heart  jounces 
as  he  sees  the  cavalryman  running  alongside  his  bareback 
horses,  four  abreast,  and,  as  they  take  a  hurdle,  vaulting 
across  three  loping  steeds  and  flouncing  squarely  on  the 
fourth  horse,  but  facing  toward  the  tail.  There  he  will 
see  the  artillery  teams  come  dashing  round  the  oval, 
swirling  the  tanbark  in  clouds  as  they  slidder  on  a  sharp 
turn  and  nicely  drive  between  the  narrow  posts.  There  the 
New  Yorker's  ears  crackle  from  the  musketry  and  can- 
nonade of  the  sham  battles.  Each  of  the  regiments  is 
represented  in  the  opening  review,  and  then  the  Canadians 
stalk  in  in  khaki  and  the  gorgeous  Highlanders,  with  their 
squealing  bagpipes,  flaunt  their  tartans. 

In  this  big  space  the  New  Yorker  has  seen  the  charge 
up  San  Juan  Hill  done  in  miniature,  and  the  tears  came 
to  his  eyes  as  the  boys  swung  past  chanting,  "There'll 
be  a  Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town  To-night."  It  was  at 
"The  Wild  West  Show"  he  saw  this,  for  the  show  has  other 
things  to  tempt  the  spectator  weary  of  Indians.  But  who 
can  ever  weary  of  the  tame  savages  in  their  outrageous 
make-up,  or  the  old  Dead  wood  stagecoach  that  goes  round 
and  round,  pursued  by  Indians  shooting  it  full  of  paper 
wads  and  falling  off  to  the  ground  as  they  themselves  die 
twice  a  day  from  an  overdose  of  blank  cartridges? 

The  famous  six-day  bicycle  race  takes  place  here  an- 
nually, and  all  night  long  the  benches  are  crowded  with 
enthusiasts  watching  the  jaded  riders  pumping  away  on 
their  eternal  treadles.  The  yellow  journals  picture  them 
as  going  mad  with  fatigue,  but  in  reality  they  bear  the  grind 
1 80 


From   Union  Square  to  Madison   Square 

with  amazing  indifference,  except  when  a  spectator  offers 
a  cash  prize  for  a  short  race;  then  they  brighten  up  and 
flash  round  like  demons.  They  seem  always  to  keep  one 
more  spurt  up  their  sleeves. 

Then  there's  the  Sportsmen's  Show,  and  the  building  be- 
comes a  great  landscape,  with  all  manner  of  wild  places 
condensed  into  one  medley.  This  year  one  end  was  a 
range  of  mountains  with  real  trees  and  real  streams  of  real 
water.  The  water  turned  two  old-fashioned  wheels  and 
then  cascaded  into  a  big  lake  in  the  center.  One  end  of 
the  lake  was  thick  with  all  manner  of  waterfowl,  and  in 
another  part  was  a  fish  hatchery,  where  trout  went  to 
school  from  the  day  of  their  birth  to  their  day  of  readiness 
for  a  frying-pan  diploma.  .  .  . 

Rupert  Hughes  in  The  Real  New  York 
Copyright,  IQ04 

A  Song  of  City  Traffic  <:>        ^^:i»'        '"c^        "C^ 

T  HAVE  heard  the  roar  and  clamor  through  the  city's 

■^     crowded  ways 

Of   the    never-ending    pageant   moving   down   the   busy 

days  — 
Coaches,   wagons,    hearses,   engines,   clanging   cars,   and 

thundering  drays ! 

I  have  watched  them  moving  past  me  as  the  day  began  to 

dawn; 
I  have  watched  them  creeping  onward  when  the  sun's  last 

light  was  gone. 
Like  a  serpent  long  and  sinuous,  gliding  on,  and  on,  and  on. 

Never,  since  I  can  remember,  has  this  long  procession 
ceased; 

181 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

Rather  has  the  surging  torrent  ever  lengthened  and  in- 
creased, 

And  the  human  traffic  changed  not  —  prince  and  beggar, 
fool  and  priest. 

They  have  marched,  and  still  are  marching,  through  the 
city's  wilderness  — 

O  the  sadness  of  their  going  who  shall  know  or  who  shall 
guess  ? 

Prophet,  lady,  sage,  and  merchant,  cap-and-bells  in  wis- 
dom's dress! 

Ah !  poor  throngs  of  the  great  city,  drops  within  that  mighty 

stream, 
When  the  night  descends  upon  you  and  the  streets  are  all 

agleam, 
Of  some  distant  hills  of  silence  do  your  worn  hearts  never 

dream  ? 

When  the  brazen  voice  of  traffic  and  the  loud  call  of  the 

mart 
Strangle  all  the  hope  within  you,  bruise  your  soul  and  break 

your  heart. 
Do  you  think  of  some  far  valley  where  life  plays  another 

part? 

Sometimes  in  your  startled  slumbers,  ere  the  morn  comes 

up  again. 
Do  you  dream  of  some  blue  mountain  or  some  wonderful 

green  glen, 
Where  the  silver  voice  of  silence  calls  the  weary  world  of 

men? 

182 


From   Union  Square  to   Madison  Square 

Or  perhaps  you  dream,  as  I  do,  of  the  quiet  woodland 

ways; 
But  the  long  procession  lures  you  through  the  fleeting  nights 

and  days, 
And  you  miss  the  old,  old  beauty  for  which  still  your  spirit 

prays; 

Miss  it  all,  and,  missing,  weep  not;   join  once  more  the 

bands  of  trade, 
Join  again  the  city's  tumult,  that  long  clamoring  parade  — 
Join  once  more  the  foolish  struggle  which  not  God,  but 

man,  has  made! 

Losing  love  and  losing  friendship,  making  life  but  wounds 

and  scars; 
Missing  beauty  and  calm  rapture,  and  the  shelter  of  the 

stars  — 
Poor,  sad  mortals,  hearing  only  noise  of  wheels  and  clang 

of  cars! 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 
Copyright,  igo8,  by  B.  W.  Dodge  b"  Co. 

A  Bird's-Eye  View  from  the  Waldorf    <:>  ^c> 

/^N  the  first  morning  I  got  up  and  went  to  my 
^-^  eighth-story  window:  New  York  was  spread  out 
in  bright  sunshine  below.  Never  have  I  seen  a  city 
more  hideous  or  more  splendid.  Uncouth,  formless,  pie- 
bald, chaotic,  it  yet  stamps  itself  upon  you  as  the  most 
magnificent  embodiment  of  Titanic  energy  and  force. 

The  foreground  of  my  picture  was  a  lightning-conductor, 
sweeping  down  from  some  dizzy,  unimagined  height  aslant 
to  the  street  below.     Beneath  was  a  wing  of  the  Waldorf; 
183 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

on  the  left  a  deep,  silent  courtyard,  whence  some  pittance 
of  air  and  light  filtered  into  the  lower  floors;  on  the  right 
a  huge  skeleton  of  iron  girders  that  is  to  fill  out  into  yet 
another  gigantic  branch  of  this  gigantic  hotel.  Beyond 
lay  the  red,  flat,  sloping  roofs  of  two  streets  of  houses 
four  or  five-storyed,  with  trees  straggling  up  to  the  light 
between  them:  this  might  have  been  a  bit  of  Bloomsbury. 
Beyond  these,  shutting  out  the  direct  front,  rose  to  double 
their  height  the  great,  square,  dirty  white-and-yellow  back 
of  a  huge  Broadway  store ;  the  blind-looking  windows  and 
outside  iron  stairs  contradicted  the  comfortable  Blooms- 
bury  streets  with  a  suggestion  of  overcrowding  and  squalor. 
To  the  right  of  this,  half-covered  with  creepers,  a  little 
church  cocked  a  squat  Gothic  spire  at  heaven.  To  the 
left  was  a  peep  of  Broadway,  with  cable  cars  ceaselessly 
gliding  to  and  fro;  right  on  top  of  them,  as  it  seemed,  the 
trains  of  the  Elevated  Road  puffed  and  rattled  in  endless 
succession.  Just  over  the  iron  fretwork  peeped  a  little 
blue  shop  and  a  little  red  shop  side  by  side;  elbowing 
them  a  big  greenish  theater,  and  beyond  that  again 
a  great  white  block  of  business  houses  with  a  broad  blue 
band  of  advertisements  across  its  dead  side.  Emerging 
above  that,  another  street;  beyond  that,  another  square 
block  of  windows;  a  clock -tower;  then  in  a  shapeless 
brown  jumble  the  city  stretches  out  to  the  steely  band  of 
the  Hudson  and  the  pale  green  hills  of  New  Jersey  beyond. 
Walk  down  town  towards  the  business  quarter  —  if  one 
part  is  the  business  quarter  any  more  than  another:  the 
impression  is  everywhere  the  same.  The  very  buildings  cry 
aloud  of  struggling,  almost  savage,  unregulated  strength. 
No  street  is  laid  out  as  part  of  a  system,  no  building  as  an 
architectural  unit  in  a  street.  Nothing  is  given  to  beauty; 
184 


From   Union  Square  to   Madison  Square 

everything  centers  in  hard  utility.  It  is  the  outward  ex- 
pression of  the  freest,  fiercest  individualism.  The  very 
houses  are  alive  with  the  instinct  of  competition,  and  strain 
each  one  to  overtop  its  neighbors.  Seeing  it,  you  can  well 
understand  the  admiration  of  an  American  for  something 
ordered  and  proportioned  —  for  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  or 
Regent  Street.  Fine  buildings,  of  course,  New  York  has 
in  every  pure  and  cross-bred  style  of  architecture  under  the 
sun.  Most  are  suggestions  of  the  Italian  Renaissance, 
as  is  the  simple  yet  rich  and  stately  Produce  Exchange, 
built  of  terra-cotta  and  red  brick  of  a  warmer,  and  yet  less 
impudent,  red  than  ours.  In  this  lives  the  spirit  of  the 
best  Florentine  models.  Fifth  Avenue  is  lined  with  such 
fine  buildings  —  here  rococo,  there  a  fine  Gothic  cathedral, 
then,  again  a  hint  of  Byzantine,  or  a  dandy  suggestion  of 
Mauresque. 

Indeed,  architects  here  appear  far  more  awake  to  what 
is  beautiful  than  ours.  Working  on  the  old  models,  they 
seldom  fail  to  impart  a  suggestion  of  originality.  You  will 
hardly  find  an  eyesore  like  the  new  Admiralty  in  New 
York.  But  too  many  of  the  best  buildings  are  half  wasted 
for  want  of  space  and  place.  The  Produce  Exchange  has 
nearly  half  its  front  cut  off  by  a  row  of  steamship  offices. 
Many  of  the  most  ambitious  buildings  in  narrow  Wall 
Street  are  so  high  that  it  would  break  any  man's  neck  to 
look  to  the  top  of  them.  Each  for  himself  is  the  motto  of 
New  York  building,  and  confusion  takes  the  hindmost 
and  the  foremost,  the  topmost  and  the  whole  jumble. 
No  man  could  do  its  architecture  justice  unless  he  had 
a  pair  of  eyes  in  the  top  and  the  back  and  both  sides  of  his 
head,  with  a  squint  in  each  of  them. 

The  city  stretches  north  from  Battery  Point,  between  the 
i85 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

East  River  and  the  Hudson,  so  that  it  is  over  thirteen  miles 
long  by  about  three  wide.     The  best  way  to  see  it  as  a 
whole,  therefore,  is  from  some  such  point  as  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge,  whence  I  have  seen  it  at  night,  stretched  out  in 
front  of  a  rosy  sunset  that  bathed  even  New  York  in  soft- 
ness.    From  that  point  the  low  red  houses  sloping  up  from 
the  waterside  looked  like  a  carpet  for  the  giants  to  tread 
upon.     These  skyscraping  monsters  stretched  in   a 
jagged  backbone  along  the  central  northern  line 
of  the  city  —  mere  white  frames  for  windows, 
most  of   them   appear  —  square,  hard 
outlines,    four   times   as    high   as 
they  are  broad,  with  regular 
rows   on   rows  of   case- 
ments   as   close    as 
the  squares  in 
a  chess- 
board. 
G. W.  Steevens  in 
The  Land  of  the  Dollar 


i86 


VII 

FROM   MADISON   SQUARE   THROUGH 
CENTRAL   PARK 


'*  I  ""WAS  a  summery  day  in  the  last  of  May  — 

J-     Pleasant  in  sun  or  shade; 
And  the  hours  went  by,  as  the  poets  say, 

Fragrant  and  fair  on  their  flowery  way; 
And  a  hearse  crept  slowly  through  Broadway, 

And  the  Fountain  gaily  play'd. 

N.  P.  Willis 


VII 

FROM   MADISON   SQUARE   THROUGH 
CENTRAL   PARK 

The  Architecture  of  New  York        ^^i'        <::>        <:^ 

nPHIS  is  the  first  sensation  of  life  in  New  York  — 
-■"  you  feel  that  the  Americans  have  practically  added 
a  new  dimension  to  space.  They  move  almost  as 
much  on  the  perpendicular  as  on  the  horizontal  plane. 
When  they  find  themselves  a  little  crowded,  they  simply 
tilt  a  street  on  end  and  call  it  a  skyscraper.  This  hotel, 
for  example  (the  Waldorf-Astoria),  is  nothing  but  a  couple 
of  populous  streets  soaring  up  into  the  air  instead  of  crawl- 
ing along  the  ground.  When  I  was  here  in  1877,  I  re- 
member looking  with  wonder  at  the  Tribune  building, 
hard  by  the  Post  Office,  which  was  then  considered  a 
marvel  of  architectural  daring.  Now  it  is  dwarfed  into 
absolute  insignificance  by  a  dozen  Cyclopean  structures 
on  every  hand.  It  looks  as  diminutive  as  the  Adelphi 
Terrace  in  contrast  with  the  Hotel  Cecil.  I  am  credibly 
informed  that  in  some  of  the  huge  down-town  buildings 
they  run  "express"  elevators,  which  do  not  stop  before 
the  fifteenth,  eighteenth,  twentieth  floor,  as  the  case  may 
be.  Some  such  arrangement  seems  very  necessary,  for 
the  elevator  Bummelzugs,  which  stop  at  every  floor,  take 
189 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

quite  an  appreciable  slice  out  of  the  average  New  York 
day.  I  wonder  that  American  ingenuity  has  not  provided 
a  system  of  pneumatic  passenger-tubes  for  lightning  com- 
munication with  these  aerial  suburbs,  these  "mansions  in 
the  sky." 

The  achitecture  of  New  York,  according  to  Mr.  Steevens, 
is  "the  outward  expression  of  the  freest,  fiercest  individu- 
alism. .  .  .  Seeing  it,  you  can  well  understand  the  ad- 
miration of  an  American  for  something  ordered  and  pro- 
portioned —  for  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  or  Regent  Street." 
I  heard  this  admiration  emphatically  expressed  the  other 
day  by  one  of  the  foremost  and  most  justly  famous  of 
American  authors;  but,  unlike  Mr.  Steevens,  I  could  not 
understand  it.  "What!"  I  said,  "you  would  Haussmann- 
ise  New  York !  You  would  reduce  the  glorious  variety 
of  Fifth  Avenue  to  the  deadly  uniformity  of  the  Avenue  de 
I'Opera,  where  each  block  of  buildings  reproduces  its 
neighbour,  as  though  they  had  all  been  stamped  by  one 
gigantic  die  ! "  Such  an  architectural  ideal  is  inconceivable 
to  me.  It  is  all  very  well  for  a  few  short  streets,  for  a  square 
or  two,  for  a  quadrant  like  that  of  Regent  Street,  or  a 
crescent  or  circus  like  those  of  Bath  or  Edinburgh.  But  to 
apply  it  throughout  a  whole  quarter  of  a  city,  or  even 
throughout  the  endless  vistas  of  a  great  American  street, 
would  be  simply  maddening.  Better  the  most  heaven- 
storming  or  skyscraping  audacity  of  individualism  than 
any  attempt  to  transform  New  York  into  a  Fourierist 
phalanstery  or  a  model  prison.  I  do  not  doubt  that  there 
will  one  day  be  some  legal  restriction  on  Towers  of  Babel, 
and  that  the  hygienic  disadvantages  of  the  microbe-breed- 
ing "well"  or  air-shaft  will  be  more  fully  recognised  than 
they  are  at  present.  A  time  may  come,  too,  when  the  ideal 
190 


Madison  Square  through  Central  Park 

of  an  unforced  harmony  in  architectural  groupings  may 
replace  the  now  dominant  instinct  of  aggressive  diversity. 
But  whatever  developments  the  future  may  have  in  store, 
I  must  own  my  gratitude  to  the  "fierce  individualism" 
of  the  present  for  a  new  realisation  of  the  possibilities  of 
architectural  beauty  in  modern  life.  At  almost  every  turn 
in  New  York,  one  comes  across  some  building  that  gives 
one  a  little  shock  of  pleasure.  Sometimes,  indeed,  it  is 
the  pleasure  of  recognising  an  old  friend  in  a  new  place 
—  a  patch  of  Venice  or  a  chunk  of  Florence  transported 
bodily  to  the  New  World.  The  exquisite  tower  of  the 
Madison  Square  Garden,  for  instance,  is  modelled  on  that 
of  the  Giralda,  at  Seville;  while  the  new  University  Club, 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  is  simply  a  Florentine  fortress-palace  of 
somewhat  disproportionate  height.  But  along  with  a  good 
deal  of  sheer  reproduction  of  European  models,  one  finds 
a  great  deal  of  ingenious  and  inventive  adaptation,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  very  delicate  taste  in  the  treatment  of  detail. 
New  York  abounds,  it  is  true,  with  monuments  of  more  than 
one  bygone  and  detestable  period  of  architectural  fashion, 
but  they  are  as  distinctly  survivals  from  a  dead  past  as  is 
the  wooden  shanty  which  occupies  one  of  the  best  sites  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  new  Delmonico's. 
I  wish  tasteless,  conventional  and  machine-made  architec- 
ture were  as  much  of  a  "back-number"  in  England  as  it  is 
here.  A  practised  observer  could  confidently  date  any 
prominent  building  in  New  York  to  within  a  year  or  two, 
by  its  architectural  merit;  and  the  greater  the  merit  the 
later  the  year. 
In  short,  architecture  is  here  a  living  art. 

William  Archer  in  America  To-day 
Copyright,  i8gg,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
191 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

The  Tenderloin        -^^        -^^y        -o        'Qy        'Qy 

npHERE  is  a  West  Side  as  well  as  an  East  Side, 
-'■  where  pauperized  Americans  live  in  brick  shanties, 
where  negroes  and  poor  whites  and  Irish-Americans 
gather  in  forlorn  quarters,  and  where  poverty,  crime,  and 
disease  are  almost  as  prevalent  as  elsewhere  in  the  city. 
Moreover,  right  through  the  heart  of  the  Upper  City, 
between  the  two  dismal  Sides,  cuts  that  Great  White  Way, 
which  has  for  its  high-light  the  district  known  as  "The 
Tenderloin"  —  a  feature  truly  enough  American,  and  not 
the  less  of  a  blotch  and  a  patch  on  the  city  because  illuminated 
by  electricity,  and  made  gaudy  by  the  extravagance  of  the 
foolish.  .  .  . 

The  Great  White  Way  is  the  place  where  the  rapid  career 
usually  begins,  and  the  East  Side  is  often  the  place  of  its 
ending.  For  the  processes  of  degeneracy  may  finally 
land  the  one-time  habitu^  of  "The  Tenderloin"  into  the 
pitiless  precincts  of  the  Bowery,  or  the  darkness  of  the  Mott 
Street  opium-joints.  "The  Tenderloin"  is  always  full 
of  evil  promise.  Here  is  where  crime  is  born  and  brought 
to  maturity.  Here  is  where  the  police  throw  out  their 
first  drag-net  for  the  defaulter,  the  embezzler,  the  forger, 
the  well-dressed  thief.  Most  of  the  race-track,  the  pool- 
room, the  bucket-shop  people  belong  here;  and  confidence 
men,  badger-game  men,  with  pickpockets  and  ordinary 
swindlers,  are  always  in  its  offing,  keeping  a  weather-eye 
open  for  prey.  The  gay  ladies  sooner  or  later  become 
the  stool-pigeons  of  the  swindlers  and  help  them  in  their 
hawking.  Such  criminals  as  these  seem  more  cunning 
than  brutal,  but  perhaps  they  are  more  dangerous  for  that 
very  reason.  The  police  have  to  keep  them  on  the  blotter 
192 


Madison  Square  through  Central  Park 

all  the  time.  "The  Tenderloin"  is  perhaps  under  stricter 
surveillance  than  the  Bowery  and  its  purlieus. 

J.  C.  Van  Dyke  in  The  New  New  York 

When  the  Owls  First  Blinked  Election  News         ''^ 

"DROADWAY  cable-cars  and  elevated  trains  poured 
^-'  their  hordes  into  the  open  spaces  on  election 
night.  There  were  thousands  massed  in  Herald  Square; 
an  enormous  crowd  in  Madison  Square,  confused,  up- 
roarious. Here  and  there,  razzle-dazzle  duets  and  trios 
wandered  up  and  down  the  thoroughfare,  celebrating  on 
more  or  less  unsteady  feet  the  day's  victory  for  reform. 
The  intensity  of  feehng  in  any  election  is  usually  indicated 
by  the  amount  of  intoxication  among  the  voters.  There 
was  more  than  the  usual  number  of  plain  and  ornamental 
drunks  on  the  streets  that  night.  The  good-natured 
crowd  seemed  for  the  hour  to  have  dropped  the  attitude  of 
reserve  and  suspicion,  and  to  have  adopted  a  carnival  readi- 
ness to  be  gay,  or  at  least  more  or  less  excited,  with  any 
comer.  And  unless  the  enthusiasm  was  distinctly  over- 
pitched  the  police  made  no  attempt  to  interfere  with  the 
hilarious  privileges  of  the  people. 

The  Bowery  was  crowded  with  Tammany  voters  who 
strolled  along  in  an  endless  stream,  gossiping  and  talking 
over  the  defeat  of  the  day,  between  times  cursing  the  intri- 
cate ballot  system. 

Grand  Street  was  brilliant  from  end  to  end,  and  every 
young  man  with  a  good  social  bent  promenaded  the  street 
with  his  best  girl  or  stood  in  the  great  crushes  around  the 
bulletin  boards.  It  was  a  great  night  for  the  little  boys 
and  the  bonfires.  Every  street  was  ablaze  with  framing 
pyramids  of  light  around  which  flitted  small  and  ragged,  or 
o  193 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

sturdy  and  well-dressed,  gnomes,  who  piled  on  barrels, 
boxes,  and  boards,  even  election  booths  stolen  from  both 
parties.  The  lofty  tenements  stood  out  in  bold  relief  or 
faded  into  flickering  shadows,  their  fire-escapes  crowded 
with  silent  spectators. 

From  the  wider  streets  off  Herald  Square  the  yellow  light 
of  these  big  fires  fell  on  and  mellowed  the  ornamented 
fajade  of  the  building  which  was  the  focus  of  interest, 
the  beautiful  old-world  palace  housing  the  newspaper  which 
had  its  beginnings  sixty  years  ago  in  a  Wall  Street  cellar,  — 
not  a  basement  but  a  genuine  cellar,  —  with  an  office  equip- 
ment of  a  broken  chair  and  a  board  over  two  flour  barrels. 

The  unique  feature  of  the  night's  display  of  election  news 
was  the  bhnking  of  the  owls  on  the  Herald  Building's  roof. 
The  birds,  solemn,  imperturbably  sitting  in  rows  on  the  roof, 
had  an  air  of  wisdom  about  them  far  out  of  the  ordinary 
as  they  sent  out  the  tidings  of  who  had  carried  the  state 
and  who  had  swept  the  city.  The  novel  idea  had  captured 
the  town  and  a  vast  army  wanted  to  see  how  this  ingenious 
application  of  electricity  worked.  Suddenly  the  light 
flashed  in  the  owls'  eyes;  then  it  died  out.  Then  it  flashed 
again;  that  was  all.  "Two  blinks:  —  Republicans  run- 
ning ahead  in  the  state."  A  minute  passed;  the  owls 
blinked  twice  again.  Another  minute  passed.  They 
blinked  twice  more;  that  made  three  pair  of  blinks. 
What  did  it  mean?  Scores  had  the  key  to  the  signals 
pasted  in  their  hats.  The  key  said:  "Any  of  the  signals 
repeated  three  times  at  intervals  of  a  minute  will  indicate 
that  the  result  is  certain."  And  the  stereopticon  professor 
threw  a  portrait  of  New  York's  next  Governor  on  the  screen 
while  the  crowd  hurrahed.  The  Bulletins  brought  out 
cheers,  but  the  owls  were  the  favorites. 
194 


Madison  Square  through  Central   Park 

And  through  it  all,  overhead,  below  the  great  bronze 
statue  of  Minerva,  the  Wise  Woman  —  vi'ithout  a  vote  —  the 
figures  of  heroic  w^orkmen  swung  their  great  bronze  ham- 
mers with  a  calm  precision  disturbed  by  no  storm  of  nature 
about,  or  noise  of  men  below  —  and  above  them  eternal 
Wisdom  sang :  — 

"  Year  after  year  I  see  them  come 
To  toil  and  triumph  —  or  martyrdom. 
I  see  them  come  and  I  see  them  pass, 
To  sleep  and  silence  and  graveyard  grass, 
And  the  ebb  and  flow  of  that  restless  sea, 
Its  storms  and  its  surges,  are  naught  to  me. 
And  I  calmly  weave  the  eternal  rhyme 
And  beat  it  out  on  the  bell  of  Time." 

Condensed  from  current  articles  in  The  New  York  Herald 
Three  Days  of  Terror,  1863      -^i.-      <c>      <;:>      -<;:^ 

T7VERYTHING  looked  hot,  glaring,  and  artificial, 
-'— '  and  everybody  looked  shabby,  jaded,  and  care- 
worn. An  overworked  horse  dropped  dead  in  the  street 
before  me,  and  I  was  glad  to  take  refuge  for  a  time 
in  the  Astor  Library. 

Returning  thence  at  mid-day  I  first  saw  signs  of  disturb- 
ance. A  squad  of  policemen  passed  before  me  into  Third 
Avenue,  clerks  were  looking  eagerly  from  the  doors,  and 
men  whispering  in  knots  all  up  and  down  the  street ;  but 
I  was  too  much  a  stranger  to  be  certain  that  these  appear- 
ances were  unusual,  though  they  annoyed  me  so  much 
that  I  crossed  at  once  to  Second  Avenue,  along  which  I 
pursued  my  way  peacefully,  and  once  at  home  thought  no 
more  of  it.  We  were  indulging  ourselves  in  siestas  after 
our  noonday  lunch,  when  a  great  roaring  suddenly  burst 
195 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

upon  our  ears  —  a  howling  as  of  thousands  of  wild  Indians 
let  loose  at  once;  and  before  we  could  look  out  and  collect 
our  thoughts  at  all  the  cry  arose  from  every  quarter,  "The 
mob!  the  mob!"  "The  Irish  have  risen  to  resist  the 
draft ! " 

In  a  second  my  head  was  out  of  the  window,  and  I  saw 
it  with  my  own  eyes.  We  were  on  a  cross-street  between 
First  and  Second  Avenues.  First  Avenue  was  crowded 
as  far  as  we  could  see  it  with  thousands  of  infuriated  crea- 
tures, yelling,  screaming  and  swearing  in  the  most  frantic 
manner;  while  crowds  of  women,  equally  ferocious,  were 
leaning  from  every  door  and  window,  swinging  aprons  and 
handkerchiefs,  and  cheering  and  urging  them  onward. 
The  rush  and  roar  grew  every  moment  more  terrific.  Up 
came  fresh  hordes  faster  and  more  furious;  bareheaded 
men,  with  red,  swollen  faces,  brandishing  sticks  and  clubs, 
or  carrying  heavy  poles  and  beams;  and  boys,  women, 
and  children  hurrying  on  and  joining  with  them  in  this  mad 
chase  up  the  avenue  like  a  company  of  raging  fiends. 
.  .  .  The  armory  on  Twenty-second  Street  was  broken 
open,  sacked,  and  fired,  and  the  smoke  and  flames  rolled 
up  directly  behind  us.  .  .  . 

But  another  day  had  come,  Wednesday,  July  15th. 
A  long,  bright,  blazing  midsummer  day  was  before  us. 
There  was  little  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs  without. 
The  city  was  not  all  burned  down,  we  found.  The  news- 
papers were  still  alive,  and  insisting  that  more  troops  were 
on  hand  and  the  mob  checked ;  but  we  saw  no  signs  of  it. 
The  morning  indeed  passed  more  quietly.  The  rioters 
were  resting  from  the  labors  of  the  night;  but  business 
was  not  resumed,  and  swarms  of  idle  men  still  hung  about 
the  streets  and  stores.  No  cars  were  running  in  the 
196 


Madison  Square  through  Central  Park 

avenues,  no  carts  in  the  streets.  No  milkmen  came,  and 
no  meat-men,  and  not  a  soldier  or  policeman  showed  his 
head.  .  .  . 

The  day,  though  quieter  than  the  preceding,  was  far 
more  irksome.  The  brick  walls  and  glaring  streets, 
the  heat,  confusion,  and  confinement  were  intolerably 
wearisome.  The  sun  blazed  more  and  more  fiercely. 
The  stillness  was  oppressive  and  ominous.  It  seemed  the 
calm  before  a  storm.  Already  clouds  was  gathering  in 
the  horizon.  As  night  approached  we  heard  drums  beating 
and  gangs  of  rioters  marched  up  their  favorite  avenue. 
The  whole  population  bestirred  itself  at  once.  Men, 
women,  and  children  rushed  out  cheering  and  clamoring, 
some  hurrying  on  with  the  crowd,  some  hanging  around  the 
comer.  Many  soon  returned,  laden  with  spoil  —  bedding, 
clothing,  and  furniture.  The  crowd  increased  rapidly 
in  the  street  and  around  the  liquor  store.  Great  excite- 
ment prevailed.  There  was  loud  talking,  with  fierce 
gestures.  Some  ran  thither  with  fire-arms,  some  with  poles 
and  boards.  Then  someone  shouted,  ' '  They  are  coming ! " 
and  a  small  band  of  soldiers  appeared  marching  up  our 
street.  The  mob  seemed  to  swell  into  vast  dimensions, 
and  densely  filled  the  whole  street  before  them.  Hun- 
dreds hurried  out  on  the  house-tops,  tore  up  brickbats,  and 
hurled  them  with  savage  howls  at  the  approaching  soldiers. 
Shots  were  fired  from  secret  ambushes,  and  soldiers  fell 
before  they  had  fired.  Then  they  charged  bravely  into 
the  mob,  but  their  force  was  wholly  inadequate.  One 
small  howitzer  and  a  company  of  extemporized  militia 
could  do  little  against  those  raging  thousands.  A  fierce 
conflict  raged  before  our  eyes.  With  breathless  interest 
we  watched  them  from  door  and  windows.  We  feared  the 
197 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

soldiers  would  be  swallowed  up  and  annihilated.  Some 
now  appeared  in  sight  with  a  wounded  officer  and  several 
wounded  men,  looking  from  side  to  side  for  shelter.  Their 
eyes  met  ours  with  mute  appeal.  There  was  no  time  to  be 
lost;  the  mob  might  any  moment  be  upon  them.  There 
was  a  moment's  consultation,  a  hasty  reference  to  J.,  an 
unhesitating  response:  "Yes,  by  all  means";  we  beckoned 
them  in,  and  in  they  came.  Doors  and  windows  were  at 
once  closed,  and  the  house  became  a  hospital,  and  seemed 
filled  with  armed  men.  The  wounded  men  were  carried 
into  my  brother's  room;  the  Colonel  was  laid  on  the  bed, 
and  the  others  propped  up  with  pillows.  There  were  a  few 
moments  of  great  commotion  and  confusion.  We  flew 
for  fans,  ice-water,  and  bandages.  Some  of  the  soldiers 
went  out  into  the  fight  again,  and  some  remained  with  the 
wounded.  A  surgeon,  who  had  volunteered  as  a  private 
under  his  old  commander,  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  suf- 
ferers. The  Colonel  was  severely  wounded  in  the  thigh 
by  a  slug  made  of  a  piece  of  lead  pipe,  producing  a  com- 
pound fracture.  The  wounds  of  two  others,  though  less 
dangerous,  were  severe  and  painful.  .  .  .  Twilight  was 
now  upon  us  and  night  rapidly  approaching ;  we  were  open 
to  attack  at  once  from  the  front  and  the  rear,  the  roof,  the 
front  basement  and  the  balcony  above  it;  resistance  was 
hopeless,  could  only  make  the  case  worse,  and  must  not 
be  attempted.  Not  only  so  but  all  signs  of  the  presence 
of  soldiers  must  be  removed.  Arms,  military  apparel  and 
bloody  clothing  were  concealed.  The  Colonel  was  con- 
veyed to  a  cellar  and  placed  on  a  mattress.  The  young 
soldier,  next  to  him  most  seriously  wounded,  was  removed 
to  a  rear  room  on  an  upper  floor,  and  placed  in  charge  of 
my  mother  and  myself.  ...  Of  course  we  knew  but 
198 


Madison   Square  through  Central   Park 

imperfectly  at  the  time  of  the  search,  what  was  going  on. 
We  knew  that  men  bent  on  their  destruction  were  seeking 
for  them.  We  heard  the  clamor  without,  the  cry  for  "the 
soldiers,"  the  rush  into  the  hall.  We  heard  the  movement 
through  the  parlors  and  downward  to  the  basement. 
Then  came  the  irruption  of  the  fierce  crowd  into  the  lower 
hall.  .  .  .  Again,  came  screams  from  below,  the  heavy 
tramp  of  many  men,  now  moving  upward,  talking  eagerly 
and  rapidly.  They  paused  in  the  hall.  We  dared  not 
move  or  breathe.  Would  they  come  up  the  stairs?  No, 
the  door  is  opened,  men  pass  out,  it  is  closed  after  them 
and  all  is  silent.  .  .  . 

It  was  now,  we  thought,  past  midnight.  We  had  no  hope 
of  relief,  no  thought  or  e.xpectation  but  of  struggling  on 
alone  hour  after  hour  of  distress  and  darkness;  but  as  I 
was  listening  in  my  window  to  some  unusually  threatening 
demonstrations  from  the  mob,  I  heard  the  distant  clank 
of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  pavement.  Again  and  again  it 
sounded,  more  and  more  distinctly;  and  then  a  measured 
tread  reached  my  ears,  the  steady,  resolute  tramp  of  a 
trained  and  disciplined  body.  No  music  was  ever  half 
so  beautiful !  It  might,  it  must  be,  our  soldiers !  Off  I 
flew  to  spread  the  good  news  through  the  household,  and 
back  again  to  the  window  to  hear  the  tramp  nearer  and 
fuller  and  stronger,  and  see  a  long  line  of  muskets  gleam 
out  from  the  darkness,  and  a  stalwart  body  of  men  stop 
at  our  door.  "Halt!"  was  cried;  and  I  rushed  down 
stairs  headlong,  unlocked  the  door  without  waiting  for 
orders,  and  with  tears  of  joy  and  gratitude  which  everyone 
can  imagine,  and  nobody  can  describe,  welcomed  a  band 
of  radiant  soldiers  and  policemen,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 
all  who  should  appear  but  my  brother,  pale  and  exhausted, 
199 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

who  had  gotten  off  the  house-top  in  some  mysterious  way 
and  brought  this  gallant  company  to  our  rescue ! 

There  was  no  time  for  inquiries  or  felicitations.  The 
wounded  men  were  our  first  care.  Our  young  soldier 
in  his  delight  had  hobbled  to  the  stairway,  and  was  borne 
down  in  triumph  by  his  sympathizing  comrades,  while 
a  larger  company  brought  the  Colonel  from  the  cellar.  A 
pitiful  sight  he  was,  all  bleeding  and  ghastly,  shivering  with 
cold  and  suffering  great  pain.  Both  soldiers  were  placed 
carefully  in  the  carriage  brought  for  their  conveyance,  and 
then  we  ladies  were  requested  to  accompany  them  im- 
mediately. It  was  unsafe  to  remain  in  the  house,  soldiers 
could  not  be  spared  to  protect  it,  and  it  was  best  for  us 
to  go  at  once  to  the  Central  Police  Station. 

Ellen  Leonard  in  Harper's  Magazine 

The  Little  Church  Round  the  Corner         -^^^v        •'v> 

"  T)RING  him  not  here,  where  our  sainted  feet 

-'-^  Are  treading  the  path  to  glory; 
Bring  him  not  here,  where  our  Saviour  sweet 

Repeats  for  us  his  story. 
Go,  take  him  where  such  things  are  done 

(For  he  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  scorner), 
To  where  t'hey  have  room,  for  we  have  none,  — 

To  the  little  church  round  the  corner." 

So  spake  the  holy  Man  of  God, 
Of  another  man,  his  brother. 

Whose  cold  remains,  ere  they  sought  the  sod, 
Had  only  asked  that  a  Christian  rite 
Might  be  read  above  them  by  one  whose  light 
Was,  "Brethren,  love  one  another"; 
200 


Madison  Square  through   Central   Park 

Had  only  asked  that  a  prayer  be  read 

Ere  his  flesh  went  down  to  join  the  dead, 

While  his  spirit  looked  with  suppliant  eyes, 

Searching  for  God  throughout  the  skies. 

But  the  priest  frowned  "No,"  and  his  brow  was  bare 

Of  love  in  the  sight  of  the  mourner. 
And  they  looked  for  Christ  and  found  him  —  where  ? 

In  that  little  church  round  the  corner. 

Ah !  well,  God  grant  when,  with  aching  feet, 

We  tread  life's  last  few  paces, 
That  we  may  hear  some  accents  sweet, 

And  kiss,  to  the  end,  fond  faces. 
God  grant  that  this  tired  flesh  may  rest 

('Mid  many  a  musing  mourner). 
While  the  sermon  is  preached  and  the  rites  are  read 
In  no  church  where  the  heart  of  love  is  dead. 
And  the  pastor's  a  pious  prig  at  best, 
But  in  some  small  nook  where  God's  confessed,  — 

Some  little  church  round  the  corner. 

A.  E.  Lancaster 

The  Path  of  In-the-Spring  <:>        •'v>        -^^i*'        •^liv 

"flJ  TEST  of  the  walk  leading  from  the  south  to  the 
'  ^  Reservoir  Castle  in  the  park  there  is  a  little  brick 
path,  steep  and  uneven  and  running  crookedly  down- 
ward like  a  mere  mood  of  the  sober  walk  itself.  The 
path  is  railed  in  from  the  crowding  green  things  on  either 
side,  but  the  rail  hardly  thwarts  a  magnificent  Forsythia 
which  tosses  its  sprays  to  curve  high  over  the  way  like  the 
curve  of  wings  in  flight.  It  was  a  habit  of  ours  to  seek  out 
this  path  once  or  twice  every  Spring,  and  to  stand  beneath 

20I 


The  Wayfarer  In  New  York 

these  branches.  Some  way  when  we  did  that  we  were 
sure  that  it  was  Spring,  for  we  seemed  to  catch  its  high 
moment;  as  for  another  a  bell  might  strike  somewhere 
with  "One,  two,  three:  Now  it  is  the  crest  of  May.  Four, 
five,  six:  Now  this  apple-tree  is  at  the  very  height  of  its 
bloom.  This  is  the  moment  of  this  rose."  We  called  this 
path  the  path  of  In-the-Spring.  We  always  went  there 
in  the  mornings,  for  in  Spring  we  think  that  it  seems  to 
be  more  Spring  in  the  morning  than  in  the  afternoon.  And 
it  was  here  of  an  April  Nine-o'clock  that  we  saw  our  first 
pair  of  grosbeaks  of  the  year.   .  .   . 

"I  suppose  that  that  little  path  really  has  no  ending," 
he  said;  "you  cannot  end  direction.  Yes,  the  path  of 
In-the-Spring  must  run  right  away  to  the  end  of  the 
world." 

We  walked  on  happily,  counting  the  robins,  listening  to 
a  near  phoebe  call  to  a  far  phoebe,  watching  two  wrens 
pull  slivers  from  a  post  for  a  nest  they  knew.  Across  the 
green,  but  too  far  away  for  certainty,  we  thought  we  saw 

a  cherry  bough  in  flower.     ..     .  —     rsr^     .  —  ? 

we  heard  the  grosbeak  once  again  from  somewhere  in- 
visible. The  mornings  on  which  we  walk  in  the  park  seem 
to  us  almost  like  youth. 

Zona  Gale  in  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 

Columbia  at  the  Outbreak  of  the  Civil  War         •*=:> 

TN  the  early  spring  of  1861  only  one  building  obstructed 
■*•  the  view  from  the  south  portico  of  Columbia  to  the 
gray  walls  of  the  reservoir  on  Fifth  Avenue  —  the  old 
wooden  stage  station  at  the  southeast  corner  of  43d  Street. 
If  it  happened  to  be  raining  hard  and  one  had  taken  the 
Fifth  Avenue  stage,  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  chapel,  the 
202 


Madison  Square  through  Central  Park 

vehicle  would  come  no  further  than  that  corner.  One  had 
to  go  afoot,  as  did  Professors  Anthon  and  Schmidt,  every 
college  day  of  the  week. 

The  avenue  was  unpaved  from  curb  to  curb  and  only 
a  single  file  of  flagstones  served  as  sidewalk.  Twice  a  day, 
from  8.30  to  9  A.M.  or  i  to  1.30  p.m.,  as  many  as  forty  or 
even  fifty  students  could  there  be  counted  going  to  or  from 
the  college.  The  rest  of  the  possible  one  hundred  and 
eighty  took  the  Third  or  Sixth  Avenue  cars.  Madison 
Avenue  extended  only  to  426.  Street,  and  the  long  rectangles 
bounded  by  Fourth  and  Fifth  Avenues,  46th,  47th,  48th, 
and  49th  Streets,  were  deep  hollows  largely  given  over  to 
goats  and  squatters.  Beyond  45th  Street  were  the  huge 
pens  of  the  Bull's  Head  stock  market.  It  was  but  a  step 
from  the  classic  halls  to  the  haunts  of  our  Hibernian  fellow- 
citizens  who  dwelt  under  the  aegis  of  Tammany. 

The  big  cathedral  was  then  about  one  course  high  above 
the  cornerstone.  The  builders  were  many,  and  apparently 
all  of  one  nationality.  A  parish  school  flourished  just  back 
of  us  on  50th  Street,  and  its  rollicking  brood  rejoiced  in 
overrunning  the  college  grounds  out  of  college  hours  and 
turning  the  goats  in  there  to  graze,  to  the  wrath  and  disgust 
of  Janitor  Weeks.  Our  playground  was  supposed  to  be 
the  vacant  lot  inclosed  and  leveled  oflf  west  of  Fifth 
Avenue,  but  we  never  played  there.  Baseball  was  young, 
and  popular,  but  Columbia  had  no  nine.  A  number  of 
us  grammar  school  youngsters  had  earlier  started  a  club, 
and  sometimes  played  in  the  open  field  south  of  49th  Street, 
but  even  the  presence  of  "Prex"  and  certain  grave  and 
reverend  seniors  as  spectators  did  not  avert  piracy.  A  ball 
batted  beyond  the  infield  was  frequently  nabbed  by  a  swift- 
vanishing  squadron  from  the  neighboring  shanties,  and 
203 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

no  search  warrant  could  retrieve  it.  The  poor  had  we  ever 
with  us  in  those  days  —  the  police  never. 

The  Harlem  and  the  New  Haven  railways  ran  flush  with 
the  street  along  Fourth  Avenue.  There  was  no  tunnel 
south  of  Hamilton  Square  until  one  came  to  42d  Street. 
Several  students  rode  in  from  Harlem,  New  Rochelle,  or 
Morrisania  each  morning,  jumping  off  as  the  train  slowed 
up  at  45th  Street,  and  presently,  day  after  day,  the  trains 
came  laden  with  volunteers  —  long  trains  that  would  come 
to  a  stop  and  block  the  passage  of  49th  Street,  to  the  end 
that  revered  professors,  like  Davies  and  Peck,  seeking  to 
reach  a  Third  Avenue  car  to  take  them  home  to  loth  Street, 
had  the  alternative  of  crawling  under  or  walking  several 
blocks  around.  When  this  blockade  occurred  after  college, 
undergraduate  indignation  was  instant  and  unanimous. 
When  it  happened,  as  once  it  did,  just  before  chapel,  it 
aroused  only  the  liveliest  enthusiasm  and  delight. 

Eastward  across  Fourth  Avenue  lay  what  had  been  the 
Potter's  Field,  a  malodorous  neighbor  much  in  evidence 
and  disrepute,  during  the  long  process  of  disinterment  in 
'58  and  '59.  By  the  summer  of  '63  all  those  open  tracts 
had  become  one  vast  tented  field  hospital,  crowded  with 
sick  and  wounded  from  the  army.  But  long  before  that 
my  name  had  been  dropped  from  the  rolls  of  the  old  col- 
lege and  transferred  to  those  of  Uncle  Sam. 

One  brilliant,  glorious  day  we  had  the  commencement  of 
June,  '61,  held  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in  14th  Street, 
when,  before  a  crowded  house,  the  graduating  class  re- 
ceived its  diplomas,  man  after  man  applauded  by  rejoiceful 
friends  as  he  came  down  from  the  stage ;  but  the  audience 
rose  and  went  wild  with  enthusiasm  when,  toward  the  very 
last,  were  called  the  names  of  a  certain  two  or  three  who 
204 


Madison   Square  through  Central   Park 

had  marched  away  at  the  call  of  President  Lincoln  of  the 
Union,  and  now  were  home  on  brief  furlough  to  receive 
their  sheepskins,  and  a  metaphorical  pat  on  the  back,  at 
the  hands  of  President  King  of  Columbia.  As  the  first 
one  turned  to  face  the  throng,  the  blush  mounting  high 
to  his  forehead,  the  silken  gown  fluttering  back  and  re- 
vealing the  soldier  uniform  beneath,  the  shout  that  went 
up  shook  the  great  auditorium  from  pit  to  dome,  and  broke 
forth  anew  as  the  President  closed  his  thrilling  war  speech 
to  his  graduates,  some  of  whom  left  for  the  front  that  very 
night,  followed  within  a  day  or  two  by  others  who  had  just 
passed  the  entrance  examination.  Columbia  was  a  martial 
college  in  those  days.  The  President  had  been  a  soldier 
in  the  War  of  1812  and,  though  his  years  forbade  his  taking 
the  field  in  '61,  every  able-bodied  son  and  grandson  went 
on  to  represent  him.  Our  three  mathematical  professors, 
Davies,  Hackley  and  Peck,  were  graduates  of  West  Point, 
our  great  Dr.  Lieber  was  himself  an  adviser  of  the  adminis- 
tration, and  a  tower  of  strength  on  all  questions  of  interna- 
tional law. 

Charles  King  in  the  Columbia  University  Quarterly 

New  York  Clubs      ^^^^        -^^^y        ^Ci^        ^^^y        ^^^ 

''  I  ""HE  stranger  in  town  ought  to  find  some  bunk  besides 
"*-  a  hotel.  If  you  happen  to  be  a  Chinaman,  try  the 
Reform  Club  in  Doyer  Street.  If  you  come  from  Nip- 
pon, the  Hinade  or  Rising  Sun  Club,  founded  in  1896,  will 
welcome  you,  especially  if  you  subscribe  to  the  little  mag- 
azine it  publishes;  and  at  Columbia  University  there  is 
a  Japanese  students'  club.  If  you  are  a  Syrian,  Hungarian, 
Bohemian  —  anything  —  just  wander  around  the  East 
Side  in  your  native  costume.  If  you  are  a  Hindu,  try 
205 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

a  theosophical  meeting-room.  If  you  are  a  Democrat,  ask 
a  policeman.     If  you  are  an  anarchist,  don't. 

There  are  political  clubs  of  all  persuasions.  The  far- 
famed  Tammany  Hall  in  East  Fourteenth  Street  is  only 
a  club  of  ambitious  nature,  organized  after  the  manner  of 
Indian  tribes  with  sachems  and  sich.  The  Democrats 
have  two  other  clubs,  thanks  to  a  split  in  the  ranks.  The 
Manhattan  Club,  formerly  in  A.  T.  Stewart's  old  mansion, 
has  now  gone  to  Twenty-sixth  Street,  where,  in  the  summer, 
one  may  sit  on  the  balcony  and  mingle  his  black  coffee  and 
brown  cigar,  the  aromatic  foliage  of  Madison  Square,  and 
his  Jeffersonian  principles  in  one  peaceful  reverie.  The 
other  club,  the  Democratic,  at  Fiftieth  Street  and  Fifth 
Avenue,  was  founded  by  the  ex-proprietor  of  New  York, 
Mr.  Croker.  It  is  the  home  of  the  Tammany  wing  of  the 
party.  Brooklyn  has  also  a  finely  housed  Jefferson  Club. 
Besides,  every  election  district  has  its  political  clubs,  named 
after  district  leaders,  who  pay  for  the  compliment  with  an 
occasional  chowder  party  on  an  excursion  boat. 

The  Republicans  have  a  Union  League  Club  in  Brooklyn, 
and  one  better  known  in  New  York.  The  latter  was  founded 
in  1673  to  aid  the  Union  at  a  time  when  New  York  senti- 
ment was  not  unanimous  for  the  continuation  of  the  war. 
.  .  .  The  Union  League  knows  only  peace  nowadays, 
but  the  comfort  of  its  basking  windows  encourages  and  fills 
a  clubhouse  costing  $400,000.  It  includes  an  art -gallery, 
and  its  loan  exhibitions  are  events.  There  is  another 
Republican  Club  on  West  Fortieth  Street,  of  large  member- 
ship. The  Reform  Club,  at  No.  2  East  Thirty-fifth  Street, 
is  devoted  to  amelioration  in  general  and  the  City  Club  to 
the  never-ending  need  of  municipal  antiseptics. 

The  creeds  as  well  as  the  factions  have  their  clubs, 
206 


Madison  Square  through   Central  Park 

most  prominent  being  the  sumptuous  Catholic  Club,  facing 
Central  Park  on  Fifty-ninth  Street,  the  Church  Club,  of 
Episcopalian  persuasion,  at  No.  578  Fifth  Avenue,  the 
Hebrew  Associations,  the  Harmonic  at  45  East  Twenty- 
third  Street,  the  Progress  at  Central  Park  West  and  Eighty- 
eighth  Street,  and  the  Freundschaft  in  Seventy-second 
Street.  But,  pious  as  are  these  monasteries,  it  takes  some- 
thing more  than  faith  to  get  into  them.  Faith  without 
works  is  like  a  watch  in  the  same  condition. 

Among  the  colleges,  the  finest  clubhouses  are  those  of 
Old  Eli  and  Fair  Harvard.  Harvard's  is  the  elder,  and  it 
is  a  charming  example  of  Colonial  grace  and  dignity  and 
comfort,  though  it  has  recently  suffered  considerable 
enlargement.  Yale  faces  Harvard  defiantly  across  Forty- 
fourth  Street,  as  on  many  a  gridiron.  The  Yale  house  is 
of  the  modern  school,  soaring  to  eleven  stories;  but  its 
grillroom  is  quaint  and  old-fashioned,  with  a  big  fireplace 
and  all  the  comforts  of  an  old  tavern.  Columbia  Uni- 
versity has  a  house  in  Madison  Square.  Princeton  flies 
her  orange  and  black  flag  in  Thirty-fourth  Street,  Cornell 
is  in  Forty-fifth  Street,  and  Pennsylvania  in  Forty-fourth 
Street. 

At  these  clubs  newly  graduated  men,  still  living  on  their 
fathers,  are  admitted  at  a  very  low  rate.  As  they  get  older 
and  incurfamilies  the  dues  increase  with  their  other  troubles. 
Chief  of  all  college  clubs  is  the  super-palatial  University, 
which  requires  of  its  candidates  that  they  should  have  at 
least  rubbed  up  against  the  walls  of  one  of  the  more 
important  colleges. 

The  Hardware  Club,  the  Merchants',  the  Lawyers', 
the  Downtown  Association  and  the  Aldine  (formerly  com- 
posed of  Barabbas  publishers,  now  of  business  men)  are 
207 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

mainly  luncheon  resorts  where  one  can  combine  the  mid- 
day meal  with  business  conference  and  indigestion. 

The  Bar  Association  and  the  Academy  of  Medicine, 
however,  are  most  palatially  housed,  and  the  Engineers 
of  various  sorts  have  homes  where  one  gossips  daily  of 
horse-powers,  watts,  ohms  and  tangential  stress.  The 
men  whose  trade  is  war  on  land  or  sea  have  their  Army 
and  Navy  Club.  The  Authors'  Club  occupies  rooms 
donated  by  Andrew  Carnegie,  who  has  recently  offered  to 
build  a  lairdly  asylum  for  all  the  other  mechanicians. 

Of  athletic  clubs  the  principal  are  the  Crescent,  of 
Brooklyn,  with  its  boathouse  on  the  Bay,  and  the  New  York 
Athletic,  chief  of  American  athletic  clubs.  Its  annual 
Ladies'  Day  receptions  are  thronged,  the  women  guests 
being  entertained  not  only  by  stunts  in  the  gymnasium, 
but  by  aquatic  contests  and  water  polo  in  the  swimming 
pool.  The  club  also  owns  Travers  Island,  with  a  club- 
house and  grounds  where  outdoor  games  are  held.  Other 
athletic  associations  are  the  Fencers',  the  Riders',  a  Coach- 
ing Club,  a  Japanese  jiu-jitsu  club  and  numerous  German 
Turnvereinen. 

There  are  two  professional  clubs  conducted  on  the  hicus 
a  nCn  lucendo  principle  —  the  Press  Club,  to  which  almost 
no  pressman  belongs,  and  the  Players'  Club,  of  which  one 
of  its  literary  lights  observed,   "The  good  thing  about 

the  Players'  Club  is  that  you  never  meet  any  of  those 

actors  there."     While  this  is  hyperbole,  the  club  is 

largely  recruited  from  authors  and  artists,  though  it  was 
founded  and  endowed  by  Edwin  Booth  as  a  home  for  his 
fellows  of  the  stage,  and  though  it  is  a  rule  that  no  dramatic 
critic  may  break  in  and  corrupt.  The  Players'  has  one 
of  the  most  comfortable  residences  in  the  city,  and  its 
208 


Madison  Square  through  Central  Park 

atmosphere  is  full  of  a  cheerful  dignity.  It  is  the  lair  of 
one  of  the  town's  pet  wits,  Beau  Herford,  whose  epigrams 
radiate  thence  throughout  the  avenues. 

The  Salmagundi  is  composed  of  the  most  important 
artists  of  the  country;  after  the  manner  of  their  Parisian 
schooling,  they  amuse  themselves  artistically  and  with 
elaborateness.  They  give  costume  dinners,  Christmas 
parties  and  auctions,  where  good  fellowship  is  indulged  in 
in  decorative  style. 

The  Strollers  had  its  origin  in  a  Columbia  College 
dramatic  club ;  it  has  since  broadened  out  into  a  group  of 
young  society  men,  with  a  mixture  of  artists  and  illustrators. 
It  occupies  the  house  lately  held  by  the  New  York  Yacht 
Club.  Here  it  has  a  small  theater,  where  "Roisters" 
or  "Strolls"  are  given  frequently  during  the  winter.  It 
devotes  also  a  week  every  year  to  the  production  of  an 
operetta  original  with  the  members  and  played  by  the 
members,  save  for  an  auxiliary  of  pretty  girls.  The  list 
of  patronesses  for  these  entertainments  exhausts  the  Social 
Register. 

The  Lotos  Club  is  famous  throughout  the  land  for  its 
distinguished  guests  and  their  treatment.  An  American 
or  a  foreign  visitor  cannot  claim  to  have  had  the  final 
accolade  of  fame  till  the  Lotos  has  given  him  a  banquet. 
But  at  this  banquet  he  will  be  treated  not  with  reverence, 
but  as  a  shining  mark  for  the  target  practice  of  the  best 
wits.     The  art  exhibitions  at  the  Lotos  are  also  notable. 

The  Lambs  is  composed  almost  altogether  of  the  more 
successful  actors  and  playwrights.  Here  the  most  formi- 
dable tragedians  and  the  most  despotic  comedians  lay  off 
the  motley  and  make-up  and  become  "just  lambs."  The 
club  metaphor  is  carried  to  the  last  degree;  the  chief  officer 
p  209 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

is  the  "Collie,"  the  entertainments  are  "gambols,"  pre- 
sided over  by  "the  Boy";  once  a  year  the  club  has 
a  water  party,  called  "the  Washing."     The  un- 
equaled    spirit    of    comradeship    and    co- 
operation   and    the    great    prosperity 
of  the   club  are  stout  contradic- 
tions  of   prevailing  supersti- 
tions concerning  actors. 
Rupert  Hughes  in 
The  Real  New 
York 
Copyright, 
1904 


310 


vni 

UPPER  MANHATTAN  AND   HARLEM 


FIFTH  AVENUE  AT  NIGHT 

LIKE  moonstones  drooping  from  a  fair  queen's  ears 
The  pale  lights  seem  — 
White  gems  that  shimmer  when  the  dark  appears 
And  the  old  dream  — 

The  ancient  dream  that  comes  with  every  night 

Through  the  long  street  — 
The  quiet  and  the  shadows,  and  the  light 
Tread  of  far  feet. 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 
Copyright,  igo8,  by  the  B.  W .  Dodge  Co. 


VIII 

UPPER  MANHATTAN  AND   HARLEM 

Riverside  Drive  and  Morningside  Heights    <::i'       ^Cy 

"  /^ENTRAL  PARK  is  as  difiFerent  from  Hyde  Park  or 

^~'  Regent's  Park  or  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  as  day  from 
night.  They  are  flat  and  barren  compared  with  the 
ups  and  downs  and  the  countless  graceful  shapes  of  this 
place.  Fortunately,  it's  too  dark  for  you  to  see  the 
statues.     Some  of  them  are  the  worst  on  the  earth."  .  .  . 

The  automobile  swept  out  of  the  Park  at  Seventy-second 
Street  and  crossed  to  Riverside  Drive.  Here  the  mighty 
Hudson  burst  upon  their  view,  and  the  long  avenue,  now 
almost  deserted,  was  filled  with  silence  and  epic  poetry. 
The  houses  along  one  side  were  all  of  ambitious  archi- 
tecture, and,  in  the  dark,  they  made  a  rich  white  wall  three 
miles  long.  The  other  side  was  all  trees  and  terraces 
down  to  the  river  banks.  Across  the  wide  floor  of  the 
Hudson,  glistening  with  eddies  and  streaked  currents, 
the  Palisades  reared  their  dim  heights  and  led  the  eye  into 
a  distance  of  majestic  beauty. 

The  marble  tower  of  the  Soldiers  and  Sailors'  Monument 
rose  in  ghostly  white,  and  seemed  a  smaller  prelude  to 
Grant's  Monument.  This  big  tomb  lost  much  of  its 
rigidity  in  the  envelopment  of  night,  and  its  succession  of 
square  Doric  base,  circle  of  Ionic  columns  and  pyramidal 
dome  lifted  the  soul  to  an  exaltation. 

"Just  opposite  this  tomb,"  said  Miss  De  Peyster, 
213 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

tenderly,  "is  the  little  grave  of  an  'amiable  child,'  a  poor 
little  boy  five  years  old,  who  died  in  1797.  The  grave  has 
not  been  disturbed,  and  it  seems  less  lonely  now  lying  so 
close  to  General  Grant  and  his  wife." 

After  a  long  and  silent  inbreathing  of  the  loftiness  of 
the  scene.  Miss  Collis  murmured: 

"It  is  more  beautiful  even  than  the  Golden  Gate." 

This  is  a  San  Franciscan's  last  tribute. 

Now  De  Peyster  ordered  the  chauffeur  to  turn  into 
Morningside  Heights.  From  the  parapet  they  looked  no 
longer  on  the  calm  of  the  Hudson,  but  on  the  checkerboard 
of  city  squares  outlined  in  chains  of  light.  Even  the  ser- 
pentine trestle  of  the  Elevated  road  had  a  grace  in  this 
half-day,  and  the  massive  arch  of  the  unfinished  Cathedral 
of  St.  John  the  Divine  rose  in  a  solemn,  gray  rainbow  of 
stone.  .  .  .  Then  the  automobile  went  spinning  down  the 
steep  incline  of  One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street,  whence  it 
dived  again  into  the  deep  luxuries  of  Central  Park,  and 
sped  through  its  miles  of  woodland  into  that  long  aisle  of 
palaces  and  temples,  Fifth  Avenue,  where  the  Cathedral 
held  up  the  high  beauty  of  its  twin  frosty  spires  to  the 
clear,  dark  sky,  bejeweled  with  constellations  and  royal 
planet-gems. 

Rupert  Hughes  in  The  Real  New  York 
Copyright,  igo4 

The  Founding  of  Harlem     ^^>        o        "vi.'        "^^ 

"1  T  THEN  Montagne  arrived  in  New  Amsterdam  twenty- 
*  *  seven  years  had  elapsed  since  Hudson's  successful 
voyage,  and  twenty  years  since  Governor  Peter  Minuit 
had  bought  the  island  of  Manhattan  for  a  sum  of  money 
equal  to  about  twenty-four  dollars. 
214 


Upper  Manhattan  and  Harlem 

The  adventurous  Montague  was  accompanied  by  his 
wife  and  son,  Johannes,  junior.  On  the  voyage  was  born 
a  daughter,  who  was  named  Marie,  after  her  grandmother 
De  Forest.  The  little  family  landed  at  the  Battery,  — 
called  "Capsee"  by  the  first  Dutch  settlers,  —  and  spent 
a  short  time  in  the  village,  where  Montagne  exchanged 
news,  gathered  information  as  to  the  outlying  districts, 
furnished  himself  with  a  dugout,  and  demonstrated  his 
daring  temper  by  forthwith  paddling  up  the  East  River  far 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  colony,  past  Blackwell's  Island, 
and  landed  with  his  family  and  farm  hands  at  the  turn  in 
the  shore  which  afterward  received  the  name  of  Montague's 
Point.  Thereafter  he  ascended  the  creek  which  then 
formed  a  tributary  of  the  Harlem,  subsequently  known  as 
Montague's  Creek,  which  wound  its  course  from  a  point 
approximating  the  intersection  of  13 2d  Street  and  Eighth 
Avenue.  An  old  Indian  trail  followed  the  course  taken 
by  St.  Nicholas  Avenue  to-day.  At  its  intersection  with 
Seventh  Avenue,  Dr.  Montagne  started  a  bark  cabin  to 
shelter  his  family  for  the  winter,  and,  simultaneously, 
Henry  De  Forest,  Dr.  Montague's  brother-in-law,  also  took 
up  his  residence  on  Montagne's  Point. 

Governor  Kieft  was  at  this  time  ruler  of  New  Amsterdam. 
From  him  Dr.  Montagne  obtained  a  grant  of  the  land  on 
which  he  had  settled,  and  expressed  a  sense  of  gratitude 
for  the  contrasting  peace  of  his  new  home  in  calling  it 
"Quiet  Dale."  He  was  yet  to  find,  as  did  his  neighbors, 
that  this  retreat  was  not  so  peaceful  as  it  first  seemed. 
The  Red  Man  lurked  too  near  at  hand. 

The  land  which  Montagne  occupied,  and  to  which  he 
gave  the  sentimental  name,  soon  became  known  as  Mon- 
tagne's Flat.  The  tract,  divided  by  the  present  line  of 
21S 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York. 

St.  Nicholas  Avenue,  ran  from  109th  Street  to  124th  Street, 
and  contained  about  200  acres. 

Shortly  after  these  settlements,  former  director  Van 
Twiller^  became  interested  in  the  Harlem  district,  and 
settled  on  Ward's  Island.  His  friend.  Jacobus  Van- 
Curler,  preempted  the  flat  opposite  Ward's  Island  known 
as  the  Otterspoor,  a  name  signifying  "otter  tracks."  This 
was  afterwards  sold  to  Coenraet  Van  Keulen,  a  New  York 
merchant,  and  hence  the  name  Van  Keulen's  Hook,  which 
clung  to  this  part  of  the  district  for  a  hundred  years  after 
Harlem's  founding. 

In  this  triangle,  whose  southern  line  was  I02d  Street, 
and  whose  northernmost  point  touched  the  Harlem  River 
at  about  125th  Street,  lay  these  three  Harlem  settlements 
while  the  first  winter  passed. 

With  the  ushering-in  of  spring  Van  Curler  finished  his 
primitive  dwelling  and  out-buildings  on  the  northern  bank 
of  Montagne's  Creek,  and  secured  a  stock  of  all  things 
necessary  for  a  well-regulated  plantation  of  the  day,  — 
domestic  animals,  farming  tools,  and  a  canoe  for  passing 
to  and  from  New  York.  At  that  time,  and  for  a  con- 
siderable time  thereafter,  there  was  no  thought  of  reaching 
New  York  except  by  water. 

Henry  De  Forest  died  in  July  of  the  next  year,  and  Dr. 
Montagne  took  charge  of  the  widow's  plantation.  He  also 
saw  to  the  proper  harvesting  of  her  crops,  and  boarded 
with  Van  Curler  while  finishing  the  house  and  barn  which 
his  brother-in-law  had  started  in  the  rough. 

From  an  account  of  the  bill  of  fare  at  Van  Curler's,  still 
surviving,  it  appears  that  the  guests  were  fed  on  savory 

'  Governor  Kieft's  predecessor. 
216 


II 


Upper  Manhattan  and  Harlem 

venison;  deer  being  so  plentiful  on  the  Island  as  to  stray 
within  gunshot  of  the  farmhouse.  Besides  game,  they 
had  fish  and  salted  eels.  Pea  soup  was  included  in  the 
menu,  together  with  wheat  and  rye  bread,  eggs  and  poultry. 
The  settlers  also  adopted  the  Indian  dish  called  sapaan, 
made  of  Indian  corn. 

Dr.  Montagne  continued  to  look  after  the  estate  of  his 
sister-in-law  until  the  year  following,  when  a  former  mem- 
ber of  Van  Twiller's  council,  Andries  Hudde,  won  the  hand, 
heart  and  lands  of  the  young  widow  De  Forest.  Particu- 
larly noteworthy  is  this  event,  leading  up  as  it  did  to  the 
first  groundbrief,  or  land  patent,  which  was  issued  relative 
to  Harlem  lands,  "granting,  transporting,  ceding,  giving 
over,  and  conveying,  to  Andries  Hudde,  his  heirs  and  suc- 
cessors, now  and  forever,"  a  site  owned  less  than  a  genera- 
tion later  by  the  Town  of  New  Harlem. 

Carl  Horton  Pierce  in  New  Harlem 

Manhattan    ^^^^        ^^:i^        ^Cy        ^i.-        ■<:i'        ^o 

OHE  that  sits  by  the  sea,  new-crowned  with  a  five-fold 

*^  tiara; 

She  of  the  great   twin   harbors,  our   lady  of  rivers  and 

islands; 
Tower-topped  Manhattan, 
With  feet  reeded  round  with  the  masts  of  the  five  great 

oceans 
Flowering  the  flags  of  all  nations,  flaunting  and  furling,  — 
City  of  ironways,  city  of  ferries, 
Sea-Queen  and  Earth-Queen ! 

Look,  how  the  line  of  her  roofs  coming  down  from  the  north 
Breaks  into  surf-leap  of  granite-jagged  sierras  — 
217 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Upheaval  volcanic,  lined  sharp  on  the  violet  sky 
Where  the  red  moon,  lop-sided,  past  the  full, 
Over  their  ridge  swims  in  the  tide  of  space, 
And  the  harbor  waves  laugh  softly,  silently. 

Look,  how  the  overhead  train  at  the  Morningside  curve 
Loops  like  a  sea-born  dragon  its  sinuous  flight. 
Loops  in  the  night  in  and  out,  high  up  in  the  air. 
Like  a  serpent  of  stars  with  the  coil  and  undulant  reach 
of  waves. 

From  under  the  Bridge  at  noon 

See  from  the  yonder  shore  how  the  great  curves  rise  and 

converge. 
Like  the  beams  of  the  universe,  like  the  masonry  of  the  sky, 
Like  the  arches  set  for  the  corners  of  the  world. 
The  foundation-stone  of  the  orbic  spheres  and  spaces. 

Is  she  not  fair  and  terrible,  O  Mother  — 
City  of  Titan  thews,  deep-breasted,  colossal  limbed. 
Splendid  with  the  spoil  of  nations,  myriad-mooded  Man- 
hattan ? 
Behold,  we  are  hers  —  she  has  claimed  us ;  and  who  has 
power  to  withstand  her? 

Richard  Hovey  in  Along  the  Trail 
Copyright,  1898.     By  permission  of  Duffield  b"  Co, 

Columbia  University  on  Morningside  •^^        ^vi' 

T  REMEMBER  with  a  sort  of  definite  vagueness,  as 
-*-  though  it  had  come  to  me  in  some  former  Hfe,  the  impres- 
sion which  I  received  of  Columbia's  new  home  on  Morn- 
ingside, on  the  second  day  of  May,  1896.  It  was  then  that 
the  formal  dedication  occurred  in  the  presence  of  a  dis- 
218 


Upper  Manhattan  and  Harlem 

tinguished  gathering.  Oddly  enough,  although  the  coming 
change  of  site  had  been  known  for  several  years,  I  had  never 
visited  the  place  before.  Indeed,  I  had  never  until  that 
day  known  anything  by  personal  observation  of  the  upper 
portion  of  Manhattan  Island  —  a  fact  which  is  rather 
characteristic  of  the  New  Yorker,  a  being  who  lives  in  his 
own  particular  angulus  terrarum  and  seldom  forsakes  those 
beaten  paths  of  urban  life  which  he  has  chosen  for  himself. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day.  An  enormous  crowd  was 
gathered.  There  were  music  and  the  fluttering  of  flags  and 
a  general  air  of  exhilaration,  as  befitted  an  occasion  which 
meant  so  much  to  our  university.  But  I  must  confess 
that,  personally,  my  feeling  was  one  of  some  depression. 
Only  those  bred  up  in  the  old  college,  to  whom  every  brick 
of  its  unpretentious  halls  and  every  inch  of  its  diminutive 
campus  were  dear,  can  understand  this  feeling.  The  old 
Columbia  was  small  in  its  physical  appearance,  but  it  was 
rich  in  memories  and  traditions.  To  think  of  leaving  it 
was  like  the  thought  of  leaving  a  home  about  which  there 
had  clustered  a  thousand  intimate  associations.  Indeed, 
the  homeliness  —  using  the  word  in  its  English  sense  — 
the  friendliness,  and  even  the  smallness  of  the  old  Columbia 
constituted  its  peculiar  charm.  They  had  given  to  its 
sons  a  sense  of  solidarity,  of  unity,  and  therefore  of  afifec- 
tion,  all  of  which  were  priceless. 

Hence  it  followed  that  the  vision  of  a  new  environment 
was  at  the  time  neither  attractive  nor  stimulating.  There 
was  what  appeared  to  be,  by  comparison,  a  vast  amount  of 
space;  room,  it  seemed,  for  indefinite  expansion;  but  that 
was  all.  A  big,  white  tent,  some  unfamiliar  brick  buildings, 
several  excavations  and  a  general  rawness,  were  about  all 
that  the  eye  could  see  on  that  afternoon  in  May  when  Mr. 
219 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Hewitt  pronounced  his  fine  oration  and  when  President 
Eliot,  on  behalf  of  the  sister  universities,  offered  congratula- 
tions because  Columbia  was  to  have  "a  setting  com- 
mensurate with  the  work  of  its  intellectual  and  spiritual 
influence."  But  a  good  many  Columbia  men  must  have 
experienced,  as  I  did  then,  only  a  very  half-hearted  en- 
thusiasm; and  when,  in  the  following  year,  the  teaching 
staff  and  the  students  were  actually  transferred  to  Morning- 
side,  the  feeling  which  prevailed  was  more  a  feeling  of 
regret  than  one  of  pleasure.  To  be  sure,  anyone  could 
understand  how,  in  the  end,  the  nascent  university  was 
destined  to  make  its  way  to  a  position  of  commanding 
influence;  but  it  seemed  none  the  less  as  though  all  this 
were  for  a  distant  future,  and  that  during  many  years  to 
come  we  should  be  inhabiting  a  sort  of  academic  mining- 
camp,  with  all  its  crudity  and  discomforts,  and  with  the 
sense  of  having  left  far  better  things  behind. 

To-day  it  is  with  some  chagrin  that  I  recall  these  casual 
impressions,  and  remember  how  little  faith  I  had  in  what 
could  be  achieved  in  a  single  decade  by  farseeing  intelli- 
gence, by  constructive  imagination,  and  by  efficient  hands. 
And  therefore  what  I  am  writing  here  is  somewhat  in  the 
nature  of  a  penitential  confession.  Ten  years  and  more 
have  elapsed  since  then;  but  what  has  been  achieved 
would,  I  think,  in  any  other  country  than  our  own,  be  re- 
garded as  a  miracle  had  it  been  performed  even  within  a 
century.  The  stately  structures  which  crown  the  heights 
of  Morningside  speak  every  year  with  more  and  more  im- 
pressiveness  of  the  essentially  Hellenic  union  of  external 
grace  and  beauty  with  inward  power  and  perfection. 

Sometimes,  in  the  early  summer,  just  at  dusk,  I  love 
to  stand  before  the  Library,  as  the  soft  light  is  beginning  to 

220 


Upper  Manhattan  and  Harlem 

flush  the  stately  columns  of  its  fagade,  and  there  enjoy  the 
pure  and  softened  influence  of  the  scene  —  the  spacious 
court  with  its  plashing  fountains,  the  domes  and  terraces, 
the  greenery  of  the  foliage  and  turf.  And  then,  although 
it  is  but  ten  short  years  since  Columbia  possessed  herself 
of  this  new  home  and  these  surroundings,  one  feels  some- 
thing of  that  pride  and  almost  personal  affection  which 
crept  into  the  mind  of  Matthew  Arnold,  when  he  wrote 
of  Oxford  as  "steeped  in  sentiment,  and  spreading  her 
gardens  to  the  moonlight."  And  we  may  share,  with  no 
less  sincerity  than  Arnold's,  the  belief  that  our  splendid 
university,  which  touches  not  merely  the  intellect  but  the 
imagination  of  her  sons,  "keeps  ever  caUing  us  nearer  to 
the  true  goal,  to  the  ideal,  to  perfection  —  to  beauty  in  a 
word,  which  is  only  truth  seen  from  another  side." 

Harry  Thurston  Peck 

General  George  Clinton  to  Dr.  Peter  Tappen         <:> 

King's  Bridge  21st.  Sept.  1776. 
T  HAVE  been  so  hurried  &  Fatigued  out  of  the  ordinary 
-*-  way  of  my  Duty  by  the  removal  of  our  Army  from  New 
York  &  great  Part  of  the  public  stores  to  this  Place 
that  it  has  almost  worn  me  out  tho'  as  to  Health  I  am 
well  as  usual:  but  how  my  Constitution  has  been  able 
to  stand  lying  out  several  Nights  in  the  Open  Air  &  ex- 
posed to  Rain  is  almost  a  Miracle  to  me  —  Whom  at  Home 
the  least  Wet  indeed  some  Times  the  Change  of  Weather 
almost  laid  me  up. 

The  Evacuation  of  the  City  I  suppose  has  much  alarmed 

the  Country.     It  was  judged  untenable  in  Council  of  Gen. 

Officers  considering  the  Enemy  possessed  of  Long  Island 

&c.,  and  was  therefore  advised  to  be  evacuated.      The 

221 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Artillery  (at  least  all  worth  moving)  &  almost  all  the  public 
stores  were  removed  out  of  it  so  that  when  the  Enemy 
landed  &  attacked  our  Lines  near  the  City  we  had  but 
few  Men  there  (those  indeed  did  not  behave  well)  our  Loss 
however  by  our  Retreat  from  there  either  in  Men  or  Stores 
is  very  inconsiderable.  I  would  not  be  understood  that 
it  is  my  Opinion  to  evacuate  the  City  neither  do  I  mean 
now  to  condemn  the  Measure  it  is  done  intended  for  the 
best  I  am  certain. 

The  same  Day  the  Enemy  possessed  themselves  of  the 
City,  to  wit,  last  Sunday  they  landed  the  Main  Body  of 
their  Army  &  encamped  on  York  Island  across  about  the 
Eight  Mile  Stone  &  between  that  &  the  four  Mile  Stone. 
Our  Army  at  least  one  Division  of  it  lay  at  Col.  Morris's 
&  so  southward  to  near  the  Hollow  Way  which  runs  across 
from  Harlem  Flat  to  the  North  River  at  Matje  Davit's 
Fly.  About  halfway  between  which  two  places  our  Lines 
run  across  the  River  which  indeed  at  that  Time  were  only 
began  but  are  now  in  a  very  defensible  state.  On  Monday 
Morning  the  Enemy  attacked  our  Advanced  Party  Com- 
manded by  Col.  Knowlton  (a  brave  Officer  who  was  killed 
in  the  Action)  near  the  Point  of  Matje  Davit's  Fly  the  Fire 
was  very  brisk  on  both  sides  our  People  however  soon 
drove  them  back  into  a  Clear  Field  about  200  Paces  South 
East  (west)  of  that  where  they  lodged  themselves  behind 
a  Fence  covered  with  Bushes  our  People  pursued  them  but 
being  oblidged  to  stand  exposed  in  the  open  Field  or  take 
a  Fence  at  a  Considerable  Distance  they  preferred  the 
Latter  it  was  indeed  adviseable  for  we  soon  brought  a 
Couple  of  Field  Pieces  to  bear  upon  them  which  fairly  put 
them  to  flight  with  two  discharges  only  the  Second  Time 
our  People  pursued  them  closely  to  the  top  of  a  Hill  about 


Upper  Manhattan  and   Harlem 

400  paces  distant  where  they  received  a  very  Considerable 
Reinforcement  81  made  their  Second  Stand.  Our  People 
also  had  received  a  Considerable  Reinforcement,  and  at 
this  Place  a  very  brisk  Action  commenced  which  con- 
tinued for  near  two  Hours  in  which  Time  we  drove  the 
Enemy  into  a  Neighboring  orchard  from  that  across  a 
Hollow  &  up  another  Hill  not  far  Distant  from  their  own 
Encampment,  here  we  found  the  Ground  rather  Dis- 
advantageous &  a  Retreat  insecure  we  therefore  thot 
proper  not  to  pursue  them  any  farther  &  retired  to  our 
first  Ground  leaving  the  Enemy  on  the  last  Ground  we 
drove  them  to  —  that  Night  I  commanded  the  Right  Wing 
of  our  Advanced  Party  or  Picket  on  the  Ground  the  Action 
first  began  of  which  Col.  Pawling  &  Col.  Nicoll's  Regi- 
ment were  part  and  next  Day  I  sent  a  Party  to  bury  our 
Dead.  They  found  but  17.  The  Enemy  removed  their 
in  the  Night  we  found  above  60  Places  where  dead  Men  has 
lay  from  Pudles  of  Blood  &  other  appearances  &  at  other 
Places  fragments  of  Bandages  &  Lint.  From  the  best 
Account  our  Loss  killed  &  wounded  is  not  much  less  than 
seventy,  seventeen  of  which  only  dead  (this  account  of  our 
Loss  exceeds  what  I  mentioned  in  a  Letter  I  wrote  Home 
indeed  at  that  Time  I  only  had  an  account  of  the  Dead 
—  the  Wounded  were  removed  —  12  o'clock  m.  Sunday 
two  Deserters  from  on  Board  the  Bruno  Man  of  War 
lying  at  Morrisania  say  the  Enemy  had  300  killed  on 
Monday  last,)  the  Rest  most  likely  do  well  &  theirs  is 
somewhat  about  300  —  upwards  it  is  generally  believed  — 
Tho  I  was  in  the  latter  Part  indeed  almost  the  whole  of  the 
Action  I  did  not  think  so  many  Men  were  engaged.  It 
is  without  Doubt  however  they  had  out  on  the  Occasion 
between  4  and  5000  of  their  choicest  Troope  &  expected 
223 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

to  have  drove  us  off  the  Island.  They  are  greatly  mortified 
at  their  Disappointment  &  have  ever  since  been  exceed- 
ingly modest  &  quiet  not  having  even  patroling  Parties 
beyond  their  Lines  —  I  lay  within  a  Mile  of  them  the  Night 
after  the  battle  &  never  heard  Men  work  harder  I  believe 
they  thought  we  intended  to  pursue  our  Advantage  & 
Attack  them  next  Morning. 

If  I  only  had  a  Pair  of  Pistols  I  could  I  think  have  shot 
a  Rascal  or  two  I  am  sure  I  would  at  least  have  shot  a 
puppy  of  an  Officer  I  found  slinking  off  in  the  heat  of  the 
Action. 

(N.  Y.  City  during  the  American  Revolution,  published  by 
the  N.  Y.  Mercantile  Library  Association) 

The  Great  Game  at  the  Polo  Grounds    <i^         '^^^ 

'POR  nearly  every  one  of  the  twenty  thousand  or  so  per- 
-'-  sons  inside  the  Polo  Grounds  there  is  one  outside. 
There  are  thousands  of  them  on  Coogan's  Bluff.  The 
viaduct  is  black  with  them;  the  third  rail  cannot  keep 
them  off  the  elevated.  Four  or  five  adventurous  spirits 
have  climbed  to  the  roof  of  the  grand  stand  in  their  in- 
tense desire  to  see  the  game  and  are  balancing,  straddling 
and  clinging  to  their  airy  perch  as  best  they  can.  Others 
on  the  narrow  edges  of  the  signboards  near  the  clubhouses 
have  clung  and  kicked  their  heels  for  two  uncomfortable 
hours.  Hundreds  have  scaled  the  fence  between  the  Polo 
Grounds  and  Manhattan  Field  and  at  one  rush  several 
lengths  of  fence  went  down  entirely. 

It  is  a  high  holiday  or  carnival  spirit  that  seems  to  actuate 
the  crowd,  or  was  until  the  Chicago  players  begin  appear- 
ing on  the  field.     Then  the  recollection  of  former  stormy 
scenes  creates  a  feeling  that  is  less  frolicsome  than  bitter. 
224 


Upper  Manhattan  and  Harlem 

The  greatest  applause  of  all  greets  McGraw  when  he  walks 
across  the  moor,  and  a  great  amount  of  expression  of  the 
other  sort  was  in  store  for  Captain  Chance.  He  walks 
through  it  all  calmly,  with  head  erect. 

They  are  grizzlies,  these  Cubs  —  ursine  colossi  who 
tower  high  and  frowningly  refuse  to  reckon  on  anything 
but  victory.  It  is  true  that  the  New  Yorks  did  not  hit  hard 
enough  to  foster  their  run-getting  game  to  any  extent  and 
that  Mathewson  pitched  good  baseball  in  every  inning  but 
one.  His  one  lapse,  however,  was  fatal.  Then  and  then 
only  did  the  Chicagos  find  the  secret  of  Mathewson's 
delivery,  but  they  make  that  one  rally  the  turning-point 
of  the  game.  Without  it  they  would  have  become  merely 
also  rans;    with  it  they  are  champions. 

At  three  comes  a  long,  delirious  yell,  a  hush,  and  the  game 
is  on.  There  certainly  is  an  outpouring  of  mirth  when 
Chance  after  hitting  safely  is  caught  off  at  first  by  a  light- 
ning throw  from  Mathewson.  You  would  have  thought 
it  the  precise  play  that  30,000  persons  had  come  to  see. 
That  it  should  be  the  great  Chance  is  almost  more  joy 
than  the  crowd  can  stand.  Chance  is  not  well  pleased. 
He  calls  Heaven  to  witness  that  he  is  safe.  He  pleads  with 
the  umpire.  He  throws  his  cap  upon  the  dust  and  stamps 
on  it.    Various  Cubs  assist  with  futile  oratory.  .  .  . 

But  joy  is  hushed  in  the  third  inning.  When  it's  over 
the  Cubs  have  four  runs.  As  for  that  high-yelling  crowd, 
it  is  as  quiet  as  the  little  throng  that  hangs  around  the  door 
of  a  country  church  of  a  Sunday  morning  waiting  for  the 
parson  to  pass  in. 

There  are  diversions  after  that.  One  can  always  roast 
the  visitor,  scold  the  umpire,  or  plead  with  one's  own  to 
come  in  with  a  run.  But  the  mischief  was  done  in  that 
Q  225 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

third  inning  and  gloom  grows  deeper.  People  begin  to 
thirst  for  a  disputed  decision  to  fight  over.  There  being 
none,  some  of  them  fight  anyhow.  .   .  . 

The  Cubs,  now  champions,  gallop  joyously  from  the  field. 

And  meantime  all  over  the  city  other  thousands  had  been 
following  the  game  by  means  of  tickers,  telephones  and 
bulletins.  Broadway  talked  of  nothing  else.  In  all  the 
cafds,  hotel  lobbies,  and  restaurants  people  kept  track  of 
the  score.  Waiters  whispered  the  latest  returns;  they 
were  given  out  mixed  with  orange  bitters  and  the  car- 
bonic; barbers  poured  them  out  between  strokes  of  the 
razor.  Even  the  manicure  girls  could  have  told  the  score 
long  before  the  crowds  streamed  down  from  Coogan's 
Bluff. 

By  permission  of  The  Sun,  New  York 

The  Old  Jumel  Mansion  ^    <^        ^v:^        <:>        o 

A  nSITORS  to  High  Bridge  —  the  pretty  little  village 
^  which  stands  at  the  northern  limit  of  Manhattan 
Island  —  cannot  have  failed  to  observe  the  stately,  some- 
what antiquated  mansion  standing  in  the  midst  of 
a  pretty  park  of  some  fifty  acres,  and  overlooking  city 
and  river  and  the  varied  Westchester  plains.  It  is  the 
chief  in  point  of  interest  as  it  is  the  sole  survivor  of  the 
many  historic  houses  that  once  graced  the  island,  but  is 
so  environed  with  city  encroachments  and  improvements 
that  its  destruction  seems  likely  to  be  but  a  question  of 
time.  Even  now  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  metropolitan 
locomotives  is  heard  beneath  its  eaves.  Tenth  Avenue 
passes  but  a  block  away,  and  eager  speculators  have  staked 

1  Written  about  1880.    The  old  mansion  is  now  owned  by  the 
Daughters  of  the  Revolution  and  maintained  as  a  Museum. 
226 


Upper  Manhattan  and   Harlem 

out  city  lots  at  its  very  gates,  so  hardly  is  it  pressed  by  the 
great  city  in  its  eager  outreaching  for  new  territory. 

Few  persons  who  pass  the  place  know,  perhaps,  the  many 
points  of  historic  and  romantic  interest  that  it  has:  how 
it  occupies  historic  ground,  being  built  on  the  far-famed 
Harlem  Heights,  within  a  mile  of  the  site  of  old  Fort 
Washington;  that  it  was  built  for  the  dower  of  a  lady  of 
such  beauty  and  grace  that  she  was  able  to  win  the  heart 
of  the  Father  of  his  Country  himself;  that  within  its  walls 
Washington  established  his  headquarters  while  the  mastery 
of  the  island  was  in  dispute  with  the  British,  and  that 
thither  Washington  came  again  in  1790  with  all  his  Cabinet, 
on  his  return  from  a  visit  to  the  battlefield  of  Fort  Wash- 
ington; or  that  afterward,  a  once  famous  Vice-President 
of  the  United  States  was  married  in  its  parlors.  .  .  . 

The  old  oak  bedstead  on  which  Washington  slept  is 
still  preserved  with  other  treasured  relics  in  the  attic  of  the 
house. 

Charles  Burr  Todd  in  In  Olde  New  York 

The  Grafton  Historical  Series 
The  Grafton  Press,  New  York,  Publishers 

The  Clermont  on  the  Hudson  ^^^  ^"^^  ^^^ 
"\  X  THEN  Fulton  took  up  the  problem  of  steam  navigation 
^  ^  he  was  living  in  France,  where  our  American  minister 
at  the  time  was  Robert  R.  Livingston.  The  two  men  met 
and  became  mutually  interested  in  planning  a  steamboat. 
A  vessel  was  built  and  launched  on  the  Seine;  but  it  was 
too  frail  for  the  weight  of  the  engine,  which  broke  through 
the  bottom  one  stormy  night  and  sank  in  the  river.  How- 
ever, Fulton  and  his  partner  were  not  discouraged,  and 
the  latter  agreed  to  provide  funds  for  a  larger  boat  to  be 
227 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

tried  on  the  Hudson.  This  was  constructed,  after  plans 
furnished  by  Fulton,  at  a  shipyard  on  the  East  River,  and 
was  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  long,  with  un- 
covered paddle-wheels  at  the  side.  She  was  named  the 
Clermont  after  Livingston's  country  seat  on  the  banks  of 
the  Hudson  at  Tivoli. 

The  boat  left  New  York  for  Albany  on  August  17,  1807; 
and  a  writer  of  that  time  in  speaking  of  its  departure  says: 
"Nothing  could  exceed  the  surprise  and  admiration  of 
all  who  witnessed  the  experiment.  Before  the  Clermont 
had  made  the  progress  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  the  greatest 
unbeliever  must  have  been  converted.  The  man,  who, 
while  he  looked  on  the  expensive  machine,  thanked  his 
stars  that  he  had  more  wisdom  than  to  waste  his  money 
on  such  idle  schemes,  changed  the  expression  of  his 
features  as  the  boat  moved  from  the  wharf  and  gained  her 
speed.  The  jeers  of  the  ignorant,  who  had  neither  sense 
nor  feeling  enough  to  suppress  their  contemptuous  ridicule 
and  rude  jokes,  were  silenced  by  a  vulgar  astonishment 
which  deprived  them  of  the  power  of  utterance,  till  the 
triumph  of  genius  extorted  from  the  incredulous  multitude 
which  crowded  the  shores,  shouts  of  congratulation  and 
applause."  .  .  . 

One  of  the  Hudson  Valley  farmers,  after  observing 
the   strange  apparition,   hurried  home  and  as- 
sured his  wife  that  he  "had  seen  the  devil 
going    up    the    river  in   a  sawmill." 
Clifton  Johnson  in 
The  Picturesque  Hudson 


2281 


IX 

THE  BRONX  AND   BEYOND 


POE'S  COTTAGE 

HERE  stands  the  little  antiquated  house, 
A  few  old-fashioned  flowers  at  the  door; 
The  dead  Past  leaves  it,  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Though  just  beyond  a  giant  city  roar. 

Walter  Malone 


DC 

THE   BRONX  AND   BEYOND 

Where  the  People  of  New  York  Live         -Qy        "viy 

"\T  THERE  do  the  people  of  New  York  live?  Where, 
^  •  you  will  ask,  but  in  New  York  ?  Quite  wrong. 
New  York,  squeezed  in  between  the  Hudson  and  the  East 
River,  is  far  too  narrow  for  a  tithe  of  those  who  do  busi- 
ness there  to  find  habitations  in  the  city.  Moreover, 
at  the  point  where  land  might  begin  to  be  far  enough 
removed  from  the  heart  of  the  city  for  people  of  not  quite 
unlimited  means  to  Hve,  there  comes  Central  Park,  taking 
up  about  a  quarter  of  the  available  space,  and  leaving  only 
a  little  strip  on  either  side.  So  the  man  who  works  in 
New  York  must  either  retreat  even  further  north,  and 
descend  each  day  down  the  tongue  of  Manhattan  Island 
to  his  work,  or  else  he  must  get  over  one  of  the  rivers  into 
Long  Island  or  New  Jersey. 

If  he  chooses  the  first  evil,  he  can  either  go  north  of 
the  Harlem  River  and  live  in  a  house,  or  remain  below  it 
and  live  in  a  flat.  The  River  is  reached  at  Hundred  and 
Fifty-fifth  Street;  all  New  York  south  of  this  is  on  Man- 
hattan Island.  Though  this  is  called  an  island  it  is  really 
a  peninsula ;  that  is  to  say,  the  Harlem  River  is  a  com- 
paratively practicable  stream.  It  is  possible  to  run  bridges 
over  it,  whereas  the  connection  across  the  Hudson  with 
New  Jersey  must  at  present  be  made  entirely  by  ferries, 
231 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

and  that  with  Long  Island  very  largely  so.  North  of 
Manhattan  Island  the  suburbs  stretch  away  almost  end- 
lessly. The  eastern  part  of  them  is  called  the  Annexed 
Districts.  This  is  served  by  an  extension  of  the  Elevated 
Railroad  and  by  the  New  York  Central.  The  West 
side  connects  with  the  Elevated  Railroad,  which  ends  at 
Hundred  and  Fifty-fifth  Street,  by  the  New  York  and 
Northern  Railroad.  And  beyond  the  continuous  line  of 
houses  from  Battery  Point,  the  southernmost  limit  of  the 
city,  to  the  northern  suburbs,  stretches  town  on  town, 
village  on  village,  almost  endlessly,  each  sending  in  its 
daily  contingent  to  the  huge  dollar-hunt  of  New  York. 

Suppose  you  want  to  live  nearer  your  work  —  say  within 
half  an  hour  or  so  —  then  you  must  Hve  in  a  flat.  Land 
is  too  scarce  to  allow  a  whole  house  south  of  the  Harlem 
to  any  man  far  short  of  his  million.  Flats  are  of  every 
kind  and  of  every  price.  There  are  flats  to  which  the  work- 
ingman  and  junior  clerk  can  aspire  without  presumption 
and  flats  which  the  millionaire  need  not  despise.  The 
cheapest  run  to  about  nineteen  or  twenty  dollars  a  month. 
This  means  nearly  50  pounds  a  year,  which  seems  a  back- 
breaking  rent  for  the  most  prosperous  mechanic  to  pay. 
For  this  he  will  get  four  rooms,  a  kitchen  with  gas-range 
and  hot  water  laid  on  from  the  basement,  a  bedroom,  a 
dining  room,  and  a  parlor.  The  rooms  are  very  small, 
they  generally  look  out  at  a  dark  courtyard,  and  often 
there  is  only  one  front  door  and  a  common  hall  —  say, 
rather,  a  narrow  passage  —  between  two  of  them.  Your 
neighbor  may  be  an  Italian  costermonger  or  a  Polish- 
Jewish  vender  of  old  clothes.  In  any  case  he  is  almost  sure 
to  be  noisy,  while  the  court  will  be  filled  with  clothes  dry- 
ing and  the  smell  of  every  savory  kind  of  cooking  in  the 
232 


The  Bronx  and  Beyond 

world.  In  summer,  court  and  staircase,  front  steps  and 
streets,  will  swarm  with  squalling  children.  Yet,  take  it 
all  round,  there  are  advantages  which  no  mechanic  in 
England  is  likely  to  find.  The  sanitary,  heating,  and 
lighting  arrangements  are  better,  the  stairs  and  halls  are 
carpeted,  the  whole  place  is  decorated,  not  magnificently 
but  at  least  with  an  attempt  at  grace  and  comfort.  The 
Englishman  will  often  be  more  comfortable,  but  he  will 
hardly  find  a  dwelling  with  such  an  air  of  social  self-respect 
—  at  any  rate,  while  it  is  new  and  unoccupied.  You  will 
answer  that  the  English  mechanic  would  never  dream  of 
paying  50  pounds  a  year  in  rent.  Probably  not.  But  then 
the  New  York  mechanic  can  afford  it  out  of  his  wages, 
and  the  Englishman  cannot.  To  the  under-clerk  such  flats 
as  these  offer  themselves  as  a  cheap  and  handy  abode. 
In  New  York  there  is  none  of  the  foolish  convention  that 
compels  the  clerk  with  a  pound  a  week  to  live  in  a  more 
expensive  house  than  the  workingman  with  two.  This 
is  no  doubt  a  blessing,  but  it  has  its  reverse  side.  If  the 
carpet  and  the  gilt  decorations  stimulate  social  self-respect 
in  the  workingman,  the  cabbage-water  and  the  brats  on 
the  doorstep  tend  to  destroy  it  in  the  clerk. 

Moving  upwards,  you  can  get  for  eighty  dollars  a-month, 
or  nearly  200  pounds  a-year,  very  much  the  same  sort  of 
flat  in  the  same  sort  of  quarter  as  you  could  get  for  half 
the  money  in  London.  By  a  curious  exception  to  the  usual 
excellence  of  American  house-fittings,  some  of  these  are 
being  built  without  either  lift  or  electric  light,  though 
all  have  hot  water  laid  on  from  below.  From  the  eighty- 
dollar  flat  you  can  advance  with  your  income  —  or  without 
it  if  you  like  — •  to  almost  any  price.  I  have  seen  an  apart- 
ment at  480  pounds  a  year,  and  one  at  520  f)ounds.  In 
233 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

London  you  would  expect  a  palace  for  the  money;  in  New 
York  you  can  get  certainly  a  most  commodious  and  charm- 
ing iiat,  but  still  an  unmistakable  flat.  The  480-pounder 
was  as  conveniently  arranged  and  fitted  and  as  elegantly 
decorated  as  any  flat  could  well  be.  Yet,  all  said  and  done, 
it  contained  only  eight  rooms,  and  those  neither  very  large 
nor  very  lofty. 

G.  W.  Steevens  in  The  Land  of  the  Dollar 

Spuyten  Duyvel  and  King's  Bridge  '^^        "^ 

nPHE  Spuyten  Duyvel  is  a  little  stream,  but  it  would 
-*-  take  us  a  long  while  to  traverse  it  were  we  to  lin- 
ger, as  we  might,  at  all  its  points  of  attraction :  the  prettily 
wooded  points  here,  the  rocky  shores  there,  and  the 
vistas  of  valley-stretch,  ending  in  villa  or  castle-crowned 
heights,  revealed  at  every  unexpected  turn.  The  origin 
of  the  eccentric  name  of  this  capricious  little  river,  meaning 
"in  spite  of  the  devil,"  is  authentically  determined  by  the 
veracious  Diedrick  Knickerbocker  in  his  story  of  the 
"Doleful  Disaster  of  Antony  the  Trumpeter"  —  wherein 
we  read  that  the  said  Antony,  of  the  family  of  Van  Corlear, 
arriving  one  stormy  night  at  the  banks  of  the  creek,  urgently 
bound  on  an  errand  of  his  master,  Peter  Stuyvesant,  under- 
took to  swim  across  it,  and  swore  roundly  to  do  so,  even 
"en  spyt  den  duivel!"  An  eye-witness  of  the  rash  act  is 
said  to  have  testified  to  having  seen  the  irritable  personage 
thus  daringly  invoked  seize  poor  Antony  by  the  leg,  and 
drag  him  under  the  angry  floods;  which  testimony  the 
supposed  victim  never  reappeared  to  contradict.  On  the 
contrary,  certain  superstitious  folk,  it  is  asserted,  profess 
yet  occasionally  to  see  his  ghost  haunting  the  fatal  spot, 
and  to  hear  his  sonorous  and  soul-stirring  trumpet  mingling 
234 


The  Bronx  and  Beyond 

in  the  rush  and  roar  of  tempest  winds.  At  the  mouth  of 
the  Spuyten  Duyvel,  where  it  is  crossed  by  the  railway  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  we  pass  the  old  revolutionary 
site  of  Cockhill  Fort,  which  stood  upon  the  bluff  on  the 
city  side,  and  that  of  Fort  Independence,  once  its  vis-a-vis, 
on  the  opposite  point.  Another  equally  pleasant  and  much 
older  reminiscence  of  the  mouth  of  the  Spuyten  Duyvel  is 
that  of  the  attack  made  here  by  the  Indians  upon  Hendrick 
Hudson  while  he  was  passing  the  spot,  in  his  voyage  of 
discovery,  in  1609.  Many  of  the  first  settlers  of  Manhattan 
were  desirous,  it  is  said,  to  plant  their  city  of  New  Amster- 
dam upon  the  banks  of  the  Spuyten  Duyvel  instead  of 
upon  the  other  end  of  the  island.  Could  they  now  revisit 
the  scene,  they  would  see  their  preference  virtually  realized, 
after  all,  in  the  expansion  of  the  metropolis  from  the  one 
point  to  the  other. 

King's  Bridge  is  a  venerable  and  historic  little  structure, 
spanning  the  narrow  and  shallow  meeting  of  the  waters 
of  the  Harlem  and  the  Spuyten  Duyvel.  A  century  ago 
it  was  the  only  link  between  the  Island  of  Manhattan  and 
the  mainland.  The  troops  of  both  armies  crossed  and 
recrossed  it  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  when  it  was  the 
theater  of  many  stirring  and  memorable  events.  Anxious 
sentinels  then  guarded  its  approaches;  armed  hosts  were 
encamped  around  it ;  and  frowning  fortresses  looked  down 
upon  it  from  all  the  surrounding  heights.  Villas  and 
chateaux  have  taken  the  places  of  the  forts ;  fertile  meadows 
and  gardens  occupy  the  camp-grounds;  the  sentry-boxes 
are  replaced  with  oyster  and  beer  shanties  and  dashing 
equipages  traverse  it  on  their  way  from  fashiondom  to 
the  rural  haunts  of  the  vicinage. 

T.  Addison  Richards  in  Harper's  Magazine 
23s 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

A  Day  at  Laguerre's  ^^::>        ^=:>        ^:>        <:>■ 

TT  is  the  most  delightful  of  French  inns,  in  the  quaintest 
■*■  of  French  settlements.  As  you  rush  by  in  one  of  the  in- 
numerable trains  that  pass  it  daily,  you  may  catch  ghmpses 
of  tall  trees  trailing  their  branches  in  the  still  stream, 
—  hardly  a  dozen  yards  wide,  —  of  flocks  of  white  ducks 
paddUng  together,  and  of  queer  punts  drawn  up  on  the 
shelving  shore  or  tied  to  soggy,  patched-up  landing  stairs. 

If  the  sun  shines,  you  can  see,  now  and  then,  between 
the  trees,  a  figure  kneeling  at  the  water's  edge,  bending 
over  a  pile  of  clothes,  washing  —  her  head  bound  with 
a  red   handkerchief. 

If  you  are  quick,  the  miniature  river  will  open  just  before 
you  round  the  curve,  disclosing  in  the  distance  groups  of 
willows,  and  a  rickety  foot-bridge  perched  up  on  poles  to 
keep  it  dry.     All  this  you  see  in  a  flash. 

But  you  must  stop  at  the  old-fashioned  station,  within 
ten  minutes  of  the  Harlem  River,  cross  the  road,  skirt  an  old 
garden  bound  with  a  fence  and  bursting  with  flowers,  and 
so  pass  on  through  a  bare  field  to  the  water's  edge,  before 
you  catch  sight  of  the  cosy  little  houses  lining  the  banks, 
with  garden  fences  cutting  into  the  water,  the  arbors  covered 
with  tangled  vines  and  the  boats  crossing  back  and  forth. 

I  have  a  love  for  the  out-of-the-way  places  of  the  earth 
when  they  bristle  all  over  with  the  quaint  and  the  old  and 
the  odd,  and  are  mouldy  with  the  picturesque.  But  here 
is  an  in-the-way  place,  all  sunshine  and  shimmer,  with 
never  a  fringe  of  mould  upon  it,  and  yet  you  lose  your  heart 
at  a  glance.  It  is  as  charming  in  its  boat  life  as  an  old 
Holland  canal;  it  is  as  delightful  in  its  shore  life  as  the 
Seine ;  and  it  is  as  picturesque  and  entrancing  in  its  sylvan 
beauty  as  the  most  exquisite  of  English  streams. 
236 


The  Bronx  and  Beyond 

The  thousands  of  workaday  souls  who  pass  this  spot 
daily  in  their  whirl  out  and  in  the  great  city  may  catch  all 
these  glimpses  of  shade  and  sunlight  over  the  edges  of  their 
journals,  and  any  one  of  them  living  near  the  city's  centre, 
with  a  stout  pair  of  legs  in  his  knickerbockers  and  the  breath 
of  the  morning  in  his  heart,  can  reach  it  afoot  any  day  before 
breakfast;  and  yet  not  one  in  a  hundred  knows  that  this 
ideal  nook  exists. 

Even  this  small  percentage  would  be  apt  to  tell  of  the 
delights  of  Devonshire  and  of  the  charm  of  the  upper 
Thames,  with  its  tall  rushes  and  low-thatched  houses  and 
quaint  bridges,  as  if  the  picturesque  ended  there;  forget- 
ting that  here  right  at  home  there  wanders  many  a  stream 
with  its  breast  all  silver  that  the  trees  courtesy  to  as  it  sings 
through  meadows  waist-high  in  lush  grass,  —  as  exquisite 
a  picture  as  can  be  found  this  beautiful  land  over. 

So,  this  being  an  old  tramping-ground  of  mine,  I  have 
left  the  station  with  its  noise  and  dust  behind  me  this 
lovely  morning  in  June,  have  stopped  long  enough  to  twist 
a  bunch  of  sweet  peas  through  the  garden  fence,  and  am 
standing  on  the  bank  waiting  for  some  sign  of  life  at  Madam 
Laguerre's.  I  discover  that  there  is  no  boat  on  my  side 
of  the  stream.  But  that  is  of  no  moment.  On  the  other 
side,  within  a  biscuit's  toss,  so  narrow  is  it,  there  are  two 
boats;  and  on  the  landing-wharf,  which  is  only  a  few  planks 
wide,  supporting  a  tumble-down  flight  of  steps  leading  to 
a  vine-covered  terrace  above,  rest  the  oars.  .  .  . 

As  there  is  only  the  great  bridge  above,  which  helps  the 
country  road  across  the  little  stream,  and  the  little  foot- 
bridge below,  and  as  there  is  no  path  or  road,  —  all  the 
houses  fronting  the  water,  —  the  Bronx  here  is  really  the 
only  highway,  and  so  everybody  must  needs  keep  a  boat. 
237 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

This  is  why  the  stream  is  crowded  in  the  warm  afternoons 
with  all  sorts  of  water  crafts  loaded  with  whole  families, 
even  to  the  babies,  taking  the  air,  or  crossing  from  bank 
to  bank  in  their  daily  pursuits. 

There  is  a  quality  which  one  never  sees  in  nature  until 
she  has  been  rough-handled  by  man  and  has  outlived  the 
usage.  It  is  the  picturesque.  In  the  deep  recesses  of  the 
primeval  forest,  along  the  mountain  slope,  and  away  up 
the  tumbling  brook,  nature  may  be  majestic,  beautiful 
and  even  sublime;  but  she  is  never  picturesque.  This 
quality  comes  only  after  the  axe  and  the  saw  have  let  the 
sunlight  into  the  dense  tangle  and  have  scattered  the  falling 
timber,  or  the  round  of  the  water-wheel  has  divided  the 
rush  of  the  brook.  It  is  so  here.  Some  hundred  years 
ago,  along  this  quiet,  silvery  stream  were  encamped  the 
troops  of  the  struggling  colonies,  and,  later,  the  great  estates 
of  the  survivors  stretched  on  each  side  for  miles.  The 
willows  that  now  fringe  these  banks  were  saplings  then; 
and  they  and  the  great  butternuts  were  only  spared  be- 
cause their  arching  limbs  shaded  the  cattle  knee-deep  along 
the  shelving  banks. 

Then  came  the  long  interval  that  succeeds  that  deadly 
conversion  of  the  once  sweet  farming  lands,  redolent  with 
clover,  into  that  barren  waste  —  suburban  property. 
The  conflict  that  had  lasted  since  the  days  when  the  pioneer's 
axe  first  rang  through  the  stillness  of  the  forest  was  nearly 
over;  nature  saw  her  chance,  took  courage,  and  began  that 
regeneration  which  is  exclusively  her  own.  The  weeds 
ran  riot;  tall  grasses  shot  up  into  the  sunlight,  concealing 
the  once  well-trimmed  banks;  and  great  tangles  of  under- 
brush and  alders  made  lusty  efforts  to  hide  the  traces  of  a 
man's  unceasing  cruelty.  Lastly  came  this  little  group 
238 


The  Bronx  and  Beyond 

of  poor  people  from  the  Seine  and  the  Marne  and  lent  a 
helping  hand,  bringing  with  them  something  of  their  old 
life  at  home,  —  their  boats,  rude  landings,  patched-up 
water-stairs,  fences,  arbors,  and  vine-covered  cottages,  — 
unconsciously  completing  the  picture  and  adding  the  one 
thing  needful  —  a  human  touch.  So  nature,  having  out- 
lived the  wrongs  of  a  hundred  years,  has  here  with  busy 
fingers  so  woven  a  web  of  weed,  moss,  trailing  vine,  and 
low-branching  tree  that  there  is  seen  a  newer  and  more 
entrancing  quality  in  her  beauty,  which,  for  want  of  a  better 
term,  we  call  the  picturesque.  .  .  . 

For  half  a  mile  down-stream  there  is  barely  a  current. 
Then  comes  a  break  of  a  dozen  yards  just  below  the  perched- 
up  bridge,  and  the  stream  divides,  one  part  rushing  like 
a  mill-race,  and  the  other  spreading  itself  softly  around  the 
roots  of  leaning  willows,  oozing  through  beds  of  water- 
plants,  and  creeping  under  masses  of  wild  grapes  and  under- 
brush. Below  this  is  a  broad  pasture  fringed  with  another 
and  larger  growth  of  willows.  Here  the  weeds  are  breast- 
high,  and  in  early  autumn  they  burst  into  purple  asters, 
and  white  immortelles,  and  goldenrod,  and  flaming  sumac. 

If  a  painter  had  a  lifetime  to  spare,  and  loved  this  sort 
of  material,  —  the  willows,  hillsides,  and  winding  stream, 
—  he  would  grow  old  and  weary  before  he  could  paint  it  all, 
and  yet  no  two  of  his  compositions  need  be  alike.  I  have 
tied  my  boat  under  these  same  willows  for  ten  years  back, 
and  I  have  not  yet  exhausted  one  corner  of  this  neglected 
pasture. 
F.  HoPKiNSON  Smith  in  A  Day  at  Laguerre's,  and  Other 

Days 
Copyright,  i8g2,  by  F.  Hopkinson  Smith 

Published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company 
239 


The  Wayfarer  in   New  York 

The  New  York  Zoological  Park       ^v:>        ^^:>        <:iy 

[This  park  is  now  practically  complete,  housing  over  5500 
animals,  fully  a  thousand  more  than  any  similar  institution, 
in  buildings  and  grounds  equally  surpassing.] 

'  I  ""HESE  ideal  grounds  consist  of  five  great  ridges  of 
■*-  granite  running  north  and  south,  four  of  which  are 
broken  squarely  across  to  form  the  basin  of  Lake  Agassiz 
and  Cope  Lake.  Through  the  easternmost  valley  the 
Bronx  River  finds  its  way  to  the  Sound,  broadening  out, 
as  it  passes  through  our  park,  into  Bronx  Lake. 

Through  the  next  valley  westward  runs  the  old  Boston 
Post  Road,  now  a  finely  improved  park  drive,  always 
open  to  carriages.  Next  comes  Rocking  Stone  Hill,  with 
its  bald  crown  of  pink  granite,  against  one  side  of  which 
the  Bear  Dens  have  been  lodged.  Directly  north  of  this 
conspicuous  landmark,  in  the  deep,  cool  shade  of  Beaver 
Valley,  lies  the  Beaver  Pond,  as  wild  and  secluded  a  spot 
as  ever  the  shyest  beaver  of  Wyoming  could  reasonably 
demand.  This  is  the  heart  of  the  forest;  and  below  it  is 
a  beautiful  grove  of  beeches,  birches,  hickories,  oaks,  and 
maples,  where  the  rich,  moist  earth  is  thickly  set  with 
spring-beauties,  violets,  and  other  forest  flowers. 

Next  westward  beyond  the  Bear  Dens  is  a  broad  ridge, 
open  and  sunny  towards  the  south  (for  the  rodents),  but 
everywhere  north  of  the  Reptile  House  it  is  beautifully 
overgrown  with  huge  oaks,  tulips,  and  hickories.  Beyond 
Beaver  Valley  it  rises  into  a  high,  flat-topped  knoll,  on 
which  the  children's  playground  is  situated.  West  of  the 
Reptile  House  and  beyond  the  Aquatic  Mammals'  Pond, 
the  fourth  ridge  stretches  a  long,  sheltering  arm  of  rocks  and 
trees  quite  to  the  southern  boundary  of  the  park ;  and  along 
the  eastern  side  of  this  natural  barrier  against  cold  west  winds 
240 


The  Bronx  and  Beyond 

will  shortly  nestle  the  aviaries  for  eagles  and  vultures,  pheas- 
ants and  up-land  game-birds.  Farther  north  this  ridge 
broadens  into  a  plateau,  on  which,  in  1901,  will  rise  the  Lion 
House  and  the  Monkey  House,  and  a  little  later  the  large  Bird 
House  and  the  Elephant  House.  This  plateau  has  been 
named  Baird  Court,  in  honor  of  Professor  Spencer  F. 
Baird,  former  secretary  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution. 
At  its  foot  lies  Lake  Agassiz  (to  be  devoted  to  a  large  mixed 
collection  of  water-fowl),  beyond  which,  overlooking  all, 
rises  the  smooth  slope  of  Audubon  Hill,  crowned  with 
granite  rocks  in  a  setting  of  dark -green  cedars. 

William  T.  Hornaday 
Century  Magazine,  November,  1900 

The  Bowery  Boy  as  Nurse  in  Westchester  <^       ^;:> 

"  'X'XTELL,,  I  was  out  on  de  lawn  tellin  de  gardner  how  t' 
*  *  cut  de  grass,  and  dat  he  said  was  a  big  bluff, 
cause  I  never  seen  no  grass  only  what  grows  in  City  Hall 
Park  till  last  year.  We  was  jollyin  like  dat  when  I  hears 
little  Miss  Fannie  set  up  a  yell  what  dey  must  have  heard 
on  de  yachts  out  on  de  sound.  I  went  over  t'  de  ver- 
andy  where  de  kid  was  lyin  on  a  pillow  in  de  hammock, 
and  she  had  turned  over  on  her  face  and  couldn't  come 
right.  De  nurse  was  off  havin  a  small  chat  wid  de  butler 
which  I'll  take  a  fall  outter  some  old  day,  so  I  tinks  'what 
t'  'ell,'  I  tinks,  cause  de  Duchess  had  told  me  never  t' 
take  de  kid  up  for  fear  of  breakin  it. 

"Say,  do  you  know  what  I  done?  I  says  t'  de  kid,  says 
I,  'Little  Miss  Fannie,'  I  says,  'you  is  down,  but  not  out, 
and  is  entitled  t'  de  benefit  of  de  rule.'  See?  So  I  counted 
off  ten  seconds,  but  de  kid  couldn't  get  up,  and  so  den  I 
picks  her  up,  and  she  looks  at  me  like  she  was  sayin,  '  Well, 
R  241 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Chames,  you  has  some  sense,'  but  she  was  so  mad  at  de 
nurse  she  kept  right  on  spoilin  her  disposition;  bawlin 
like  her  grip  had  got  stranded  in  de  cable  and  she  couldn't 
let  go. 

"Say,  I  was  more  crazy,  cause  I  was  tinkin  about  what 
de  Duchess  had  warned  me,  and  I  didn't  know  but  dat  I'd 
fetched  something  loose  in  de  kid's  kit,  and  it  might  go  off 
its  feed,  and  den  Miss  Fannie  would  have  a  fit ;  and  only 
dat  de  gardner  was  lookin  at  me  and  sayin,  'I  guess, 
Chames,  you  learned  t'  be  a  nurse  where  you  learned  to 
cut  grass';  only  for  dat  I'd  trun  little  Miss  Fannie  in  de 
hammock  and  chased  after  de  nurse. 

"So  I  says  t'  de  gardner,  says  I:  'Where  I  came  from 
folks  learns  all  sorts  of  tings,'  I  says,  'even  t'  not  talkin  too 
much,'  says  I,  and  I  gives  de  kid  a  toss  in  me  two  arms, 
like  dey  was  a  cradle,  and  I  starts  singin  to  it.  Say,  you 
never  heard  me  chant,  did  you?  Well,  dere  ain't  many 
in  it  wid  me  on  or  oflf  de  Bowry  when  it  comes  t'  singin. 
Why,  de  very  minute  I  pipes  up,  little  Miss  Fannie  shuts  her 
face  and  looks  at  me,  sprised  like,  at  first,  and  den  she  starts 
t'  laughin  as  hard  as  his  Whiskers  when  he  tells  a  story 
after  his  second  bot.  Dis  is  de  song  I  sung,  and  it  goes  wid 
any  old  Irish  tune: 

"Wan  marnin  early  Oi  arose 
And  Oi  put  on  me  workin  close, 
And  phare  in  th'  wurruld  d'ye  think  Oi  goes? 
Up !  up !  up !  up  !  t'  Wan  Hoondred  and  Ninety-sixth  street. 

"  Dthe  sphecdway  thrack  dthcy're  buildin  dthere, 
But  all  us  terriers  live  afar 
From  Cherry  Hill,  wid  divil  a  car  — 
Up  !  up  !  up  !  up  !  t'  Wan  Hoondred  and  Ninety-sixth  street. 

"It's  dthere  yez  work  wid  pick  and  drill; 
And  tdhere  wid  work  yez  get  yer  fill ; 
242 


The   Bronx  and  Beyond 

And  dthere  wid  work  yer  toim  yez  fill  — 

Up !  up !  up !  up !  t'  Wan  Hoondred  and  Ninety-sixth  street. 

"  Shure,  whin  our  daily  work  is  o'er, 
Bedad,  our  bones  is  tired  and  sore, 
And  we'll  be  glad  to  tramp  no  more 
Up !  up !  up !  up !  t'  Wan  Hoondred  and  Ninety-sixth  street. 

"Say,  I  made  a  hit  dat  time  if  I  never  did  before  in  me  life. 
Little  Miss  Fannie  wouldn't  let  me  stop  till  I'd  sung  dat  song 
near  a  million  times;  me  walkin  up  and  down  de  verandy 
wid  her  all  de  time  till  I  was  so  hot  I  had  a  tirst  on  me  like 
a  man  what  had  been  runnin  a  lawnmower  in  de  sun  all  day. 
I  was  just  tinkin  dat  me  arms  would  drop  off  in  anodder 
minute  if  de  kid  didn't  go  t'  sleep,  when  she  shut  her  eyes, 
and  dat  minute  Miss  Fannie  and  de  Duchess  drove  into  de 
gate.  ...  So  dat  night  Miss  Fannie  told  all  de  folks 
at  dinner  what  a  lulu  I  was,  and  his  Whiskers,  he  says, 
'Chames,'  says  he,  'you  has  done  yourself  so  proud  dat 
I  tink  you  is  due  on  a  day  off,  and  to-morrow  you  can  go 
t'  de  city  and  look  at  a  bull  pup  I  has  my  eye  on, '  he  says." 
E.  W.  TowNSEND  in  Chimmie  Fadden  and  Little 
Miss  Fannie 


D' 


Their  Wedding  Journey — 1834     o         <:>        "O 

jEAR  MOTHER, 

When  the  Coach  rolled  off 
From  dear  old  Battery  Place 
I  hid  my  face  within  my  hands  — 

That  is,  I  hid  my  face. 
Tom  says  (he's  leaning  over  me !) 

'Twas  on  his  shoulder,  too; 
But,  oh,  I  pray  you  will  believe 
I  wept  to  part  from  You. 
243 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

And  when  we  rattled  up  Broadway 

I  wept  to  leave  the  Scene 
Familiar  to  my  happy  Youth 

(I  did  love  Bowling  Green). 
I  wept  at  Slidell's  Chandlery 

To  see  the  smoke  arise  — 
('Twas  only  at  the  City  Hall 

Tom  bade  me  wipe  my  Eyes.) 
4!  *  *  H:  *  *  * 

We  have  not  gone  to  Uncle  John's, 

Though  Yonkers  is  so  near  — 
We  never  shall  see  Cousin  Van 

At  Tarrytown,  I  fear. 
Our  Peekskill  friends,  the  Fishkill  folk, 

And  all  the  waiting  rest  — 
Tom  bids  me  tell  you  they  may  wait  — 

(He  says  they  may  be  blest). 

I  know  'tis  ill  to  linger  here 

Hid  in  this  woodland  Inn 
When  all  along  Queen  Anne's  broad  road 

Await  our  Friends  and  Kin; 
But,  dear  Mama  (when  I  was  small 

You  let  me  call  you  so), 
'Tis  such  Felicity  and  Joy 

With  Him,  Here!    Do  you  know? 

YOUR  ISABEL. 
P.  S.  —  Tom  sends 

His  love.     Please  write,  "I  know." 

H.  C.  BUNNER 

Copyright,  i8q6, 

by  Charles  Scribner^s  Sons 
244 


X 

OVER  THE  WATER 


Singularly  enough  there  is  in  New  York  a  superficial  like- 
ness to  Constantinople.  Even  the  height  and  location  of  the 
ground  with  the  contours  cut  by  the  rivers  are  not  dissimilar. 
A  glance  at  the  map  will  show  the  Hudson  corresponding  to 
the  Marmora,  the  East  River  to  the  Golden  Horn,  the  Upper 
Bay  to  the  Bosporus.  Other  resemblances  derive  naturally 
from  these.  Manhattan  becomes  recognizable  as  Stamboul, 
the  Battery  as  Seraglio  Point,  Brooklyn  as  the  heights  of  Pera, 
Staten  Island  as  Scutari.  Even  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  can  be 
tortured  into  a  resemblance  to  the  Galata  Bridge,  and  the 
Williamsburgh  Bridge  is  an  exaggerated  suggestion  of  the 
upper  bridge  on  the  Golden  Horn. 

J.  C.  V.  D. 


OVER  THE  WATER 

The  Bridges  and  BlackwelPs  Island  <^         '*^ 

npHE  earliest  one,  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  was  opened  for 
-*-  traffic  in  1883,  and  since  then  upwards  of  fifty  million 
people  a  year  have  continuously  passed  over  it  in  cars 
alone.  It  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the  suspension 
bridges,  with  stone  towers  272  feet  in  height,  a  central 
span  of  1595  feet,  and  a  lift  above  the  water  of  135  feet. 
Its  total  length  is  5959  feet,  something  over  a  mile.  It  has 
promenades  for  foot  passengers,  two  roadways  for  vehicles, 
and  two  railway  tracks  for  electric  cars. 

Enormous  as  this  bridge  was  when  first  built,  and  spectac- 
ular as  it  still  appears,  it  is  outdone  in  size  by  the  Williams- 
burgh  Bridge,  sometimes  called  "Bridge  No.  2."  This  is 
another  suspension  affair,  but  of  quite  a  different  appear- 
ance from  the  first  bridge.  It  has  steel  towers  325  feet  in 
height,  a  central  span  of  1600  feet,  and  a  total  length  of 
7200  feet.  Since  its  opening  it  has  carried  immense  crowds. 
When  the  cars  for  it  are  in  running  order  they  will  trans- 
port 200,000  people  a  day  and  in  emergencies  125,000 
people  an  hour.  In  its  118  feet  of  width  it  has  four  sur- 
face railway  tracks,  two  elevated  tracks,  two  carriage  ways, 
two  promenades,  and  two  bicycle  paths. 

Yet  this  bridge  is  once  more  surpassed  in  size  by  the 
Queensboro  or  Blackwell's  Island  Bridge.  It  is  a  canti- 
lever of  peculiar  design  and  is  regarded  as  an  experiment 
247 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

by  some  and  as  an  unsafe  structure  by  others.  It  has  four 
trolley  tracks,  two  elevated  railway  tracks,  besides  foot- 
paths and  carriage  ways,  and  its  capacity  is  125,000 
passengers  an  hour.  It  crosses  the  East  River  between 
Fifty-ninth  Street  and  Long  Island  City  in  three  spans, 
resting  on  Blackwell's  Island  after  the  first  one,  and  making 
a  short  span  across  the  island  itself.  There  are  six  rather 
fine  masonry  piers,  two  on  the  island  and  two  on  each  river 
bank.  The  total  reach  of  the  bridge  is  7636  feet.  The 
distinction  of  being  the  largest  cantilever  in  the  world 
(the  Forth  Bridge  has  a  longer  single  span)  is  perhaps 
needed  to  sustain  an  interest,  for  it  certainly  is  not  beautiful. 
It  seems  cumbrous  and  unnecessarily  heavy. 

In  sheer  weight,  however,  as  in  carrying  capacity,  this 
Queensboro  cantilever  is  exceeded  by  "Bridge  No.  3," 
or  the  Manhattan  Bridge,  now  nearly  completed.  It  is 
between  the  Brooklyn  and  the  Williamsburgh  bridges,  and 
like  them  is  suspended  on  enormous  ropes  of  steel.  Each 
rope  consists  of  9472  wires,  ys  of  an  inch  in  diameter, 
woven  into  thirty-seven  strands,  with  an  outside  diameter 
of  2ii  inches.  These  cables  are  swung  from  steel  towers 
standing  upon  granite  and  concrete  foundations  that  go 
down  to  bed-rock  100  feet  below  the  mean  surface  of  the 
water.  The  towers  are  345  feet  in  height,  the  steel  in  each 
of  them  weighs  some  6250  tons,  and  each  carries  a  load  of 
32,000  tons.  The  anchorage  on  either  shore  to  which  the 
ends  of  the  cables  are  made  fast  is  another  mass  of  granite 
and  concrete,  weighing  something  like  232,000  tons.  It 
is  calculated  to  resist  a  pull  of,  say,  30,000  tons.  From 
the  main  cables,  carried  by  smaller  suspender  cables,  is 
the  superstructure,  which  in  weight  of  nickel-steel,  includ- 
ing the  towers,  amounts  to  42,000  tons.  In  the  main  span 
248 


Over  the  Water 

over  the  river  there  is  10,000  tons,  and  in  each  shore  span 
5000  tons. 

These  figures  suggest  a  bridge  of  not  only  great  vi^eight, 
but  of  huge  size.  It  is  planned  to  be  the  strongest  and 
possibly  the  longest  bridge  in  the  world.  And  this  not 
because  New  York  wants  to  have  the  "biggest"  structure 
in  all  creation,  paying  ten  or  more  millions  for  that  pre- 
tentious distinction,  but  because  it  needs  a  bridge  that  will 
carry  from  300,000  to  500,000  people  a  day,  and  carry 
most  of  them  during  the  "rush"  hours.  It  is  built  to  stand 
great  strain  and  to  accommodate  any  crowd,  however  large. 
To  that  end  there  are  to  be  four  tracks  for  elevated  and 
subway  cars,  accommodating  trains  of  eight  and  ten  cars 
each,  four  more  tracks  for  trolleys  and  surface  cars  on  a 
second  floor,  besides  a  roadway  thirty-five  feet  wide  and 
two  twelve-foot  sidewalks  for  pedestrians.  The  main 
span  of  the  bridge  is  not  so  long  as  those  of  the  Brooklyn 
and  Williamsburgh  bridges,  being  1470  feet  to  their  1600; 
but  the  approach  from  the  Manhattan  side  is  1940  feet 
and  from  the  Brooklyn  side  4230  feet.  This  makes  a 
total  length  of  9090  feet,  nearly  two  miles.  That  figure, 
taken  in  connection  with  its  width  of  120  feet  (35  feet 
wider  than  the  Brooklyn  Bridge),  gives  perhaps  some  idea 
of  this  stupendous  structure  of  steel  swung  across  the  East 
River  as  easily  and  as  lightly  as  a  spider's  web  across  a 
doorway. 

For,  notwithstanding  its  weight  and  mass,  this  bridge 
does  not  look  heavy.  Apparently  it  has  no  rigidity  about 
it.  It  looks  as  though  it  might  ride  out  a  storm  by  bending 
before  it  or  swaying  with  it.  Its  grace  and  its  feeling  of 
elasticity  come  from  its  fine  bending  lines.  The  city 
planned  for  the  beauty  of  the  structure  as  well  as  for  its 
249 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

usefulness.  Mr.  Hastings,  the  architect,  has  personally 
had  its  decoration  on  his  hands  and  conscience  for  a  long 
time.  No  doubt  this  has  meant  much  in  matters  of  detail. 
The  main  beauty  of  the  bridge,  however,  lies  in  its  lines  — 
the  graceful  droop  of  its  cables  over  its  upright  towers. 

The  Brooklyn  Bridge  also  has  this  grace  of  line  and 
delicate  tracery  against  the  sky.  The  towers  are  well- 
proportioned  masses  of  masonry,  but  when  built  they 
were  denounced  by  many  for  their  pike-staflf  plainness. 
They  were  thought  "ugly"  because  not  ornamented  with 
mouldings,  or  divided  up  by  string  courses  of  protruding 
stone.  In  fact,  the  whole  bridge  was  considered  some- 
thing of  a  monstrosity,  and  spoken  of  at  that  time  very 
much  as  our  skyscrapers  are  scoffed  at  to-day.  But, 
fortunately,  the  bridge  has  existed  long  enough  to  win  over 
many  of  those  who  thought  it  monstrous;  and  the  newer 
generation  has  come  to  regard  it  as  one  of  the  city's  most 
beautiful  features.  It  has  grown  gray  in  service,  having 
been  used  twenty -five  years;  and  is  now  spoken  of  as 
"the  old  Bridge."  Perhaps  some  of  its  attractiveness 
has  come  with  age,  and  then,  perhaps  again,  it  was  just 
as  beautiful  the  day  it  was  completed,  and  we  have  merely 
grown  up  to  it. 

The  islands  where  the  city  institutions  are  located  are 
in  summer  the  coolest  and  the  greenest  spots  in  the  city, 
and  at  any  season  they  are  beautiful  in  their  settings. 
All  of  which  puts  the  notion  into  one's  head  that  the  city 
has  given  up  to  its  crippled  and  aged,  its  thugs  and  thieves, 
its  paupers  and  prisoners,  the  most  livable  and  lovable 
portions  of  the  town,  keeping  for  itself  only  some  flat  and 
rather  hot  districts  on  the  upper  avenues.  This  looks 
like  a  great  deal  of  self-denial  in  favor  of  the  outcast ;  but, 
230 


Over  the  Water 

unfortunately,  the  motive  will  not  bear  critical  analysis. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  New  Yorkers  put  the  prisoners 
and  the  paupers  on  the  islands  because  no  one  else  wanted 
those  spots.  They  were  waste  places  that  could  be  spared 
very  readily;  and  besides,  over  there  "the  slovenly  un- 
handsome corse"  could  not  come  betwixt  the  wind  and 
the  nobility.  People  do  not  want  their  public  institutions 
too  close  to  them. 

As  for  islands  near  a  city,  they  have  never  been  popular 
resorts,  except  for  picnic  parties.  Humanity  of  the  hermit 
variety  occasionally  exists  upon  them;  but  the  true  city- 
dweller  is  a  person  of  gregarious  tastes  and  loves  to  flock 
along  a  dusty  street  rather  than  a  water  front.  Moreover, 
the  islands  are  inaccessible,  hard  to  come  and  go  from,  and, 
also,  they  are  "dreadfully  lonely."  But  they  are  good 
healthful  places  for  the  indigent  and  the  aged,  and  admirable 
spots  in  which  to  bring  sinners  to  repentance.  Hence  their 
appropriateness  for  prisons  and  hospitals.  Let  the  bhnd 
and  the  halt  have  them.  So  long  as  the  free  citizen  can 
smell  gasolene  and  see  asphalt  on  Fifth  Avenue,  he  will 
not  miss  the  sea  breezes  and  green  grass  of  the  islands. 

J.  C.  Van  Dyke  in  The  New  New  York 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry      'si>'        -oy        o        o 

I 

PLOOD-TIDE  below  me !    I  see  you  face  to  face ! 
-■■    Clouds  of  the  west-sun  there  half  an  hour  high  — 

I  see  you  also  face  to  face. 
Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the  usual  costumes, 

how  curious  you  are  to  me ! 
251 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

On  the  ferry-boats  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  that  cross, 

returning  home,  are  more  curious  to  me  than  you 

suppose. 
And  you  that  shall  cross  from  shore  to  shore  years  hence 

are  more  to  me,  and  more  in  my  meditations,  than 

you  might  suppose. 

ii:  4:  4:  4:  4:  4:  4: 

I  too  many  and  many  a  time  cross' d  the  river  of  old, 
Watched  the  Twelfth-month  sea-gulls,  saw  them  high  in  the 

air  floating  with  motionless  wings,  oscillating  their 

bodies. 
Saw  how  the  glistening  yellow  lit  up  parts  of  their  bodies 

and  left  the  rest  in  strong  shadow. 
Saw  the  slow -wheeling  circles  and  the  gradual  edging  toward 

the  south, 
Saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the  water, 
Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering  track  of  beams, 
Look'd  at  the  fine  centrifugal  spokes  of  light  round  the 

shape  of  my  head  in  the  sunlit  water, 
Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the  hills  southward  and  south- 
westward, 
Look'd  on  the  vapor  as  it  flew  in  fleeces  tinged  with  violet, 
Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the  vessels  arriving, 
Saw  their  approach,  saw  aboard  those  that  were  near  me, 
Saw  the  white  sails  of  schooners  and  sloops,  saw  the  ships 

at  anchor, 
The  sailors  at  work  in  the  rigging  or  out  astride  the  spars, 

n 

The  round  masts,  the  swinging  motion  of  the  hulls,  the 
slender  serpentine  pennants, 
252 


Over  the  Water 

The  large  and  small  steamers  in  motion,  the  pilots  in  their 

pilot-houses, 
The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the  quick  tremulous 

whirl  of  the  wheels, 
The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them  at  sunset. 
The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the  twilight,  the  ladled  cups, 

the  frolicsome  crests  and  glistening. 
The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  the  gray 

walls  of  the  granite  storehouses  by  the  docks. 
On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big  steam-tug  closely 

fiank'd  on  each  side  by  the  barges,  the  hay-boat,  the 

belated  lighter, 
On  the  neighboring  shore  the  fires  from  the  foundry  chim- 
neys burning  high  and  glaringly  into  the  night. 
Casting  their  flicker  of  black  contrasted  with  wild  red  and 

yellow  light  over  the  tops  of  houses,  and  down  into 

the  clefts  of  streets. 

******* 
Flow  on,  river !    flow  with  the  flood-tide,  and  ebb  with  the 

ebb-tide ! 
Frolic  on,  crested  and  scallop-edg'd  waves! 
Gorgeous  clouds  of  the  sunset !  drench  with  your  splendor 

me,  or  the  men  and  women  generations  after  me ! 
Cross  from  shore  to  shore,  countless  crowds  of  passen- 
gers! 
Stand  up,  tall  masts  of  Manahatta!  stand  up,  beautiful 

hills  of  Brooklyn! 
Throb,  bafiied  and  curious  brain !  throw  out  questions  and 

answers ! 
Suspend  here  and  everywhere,  eternal  float  of  solution ! 
Gaze,  loving  and  thirsting  eyes,  in  the  house  or  street  or 

public  assembly ! 

253 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Sound  out,  voices  of  young  men !     loudly  and  musically 

call  me  by  my  nighest  name ! 
Live,  old  life !  play  the  part  that  looks  back  on  the  actor 

or  actress! 
Play  the  old  role,  the  role  that  is  great  or  small  according 

as  one  makes  it ! 
Consider,  you  who  peruse  me,  whether  I  may  not  in  un- 
known ways  be  looking  upon  you; 
Be  firm,  rail  over  the  river,  to  support  those  who  lean  idly, 

yet  haste  with  the  hasting  current; 
Fly  on,  sea-birds!  fly  sideways,  or  wheel  in  large  circles 

high  in  the  air; 
Receive  the  summer  sky,  you  water,  and  faithfully  hold 

it  till  all  downcast  eyes  have  time  to  take  it  from  you ! 
Diverge,  fine  spokes  of  light,  from  the  shape  of  my  head,  or 

any  one's  head,  in  the  sunlit  water! 
Come  on,  ships  from  the  lower  bay!    pass  up  or  down. 

white-sail'd  schooners,  sloops,  lighters! 

Walt  Whitman 

Flushing        <^        'Qy        <::^        ''C>        -"v^        •«;>y 

THE  Bowne  place  in  Flushing,  a  very  old  type  of 
Long  Island  farm-house,  was  turned  into  a  mu- 
seum by  the  Bowne  family  itself  —  an  excellent  idea;  — 
the  Quaker  meeting-house  in  Flushing,  though  not  so 
old  by  twenty-five  years  as  it  is  painted  in  the  sign  which 
says,  "Built  in  1695,"  will  probably  be  preserved  as  a 
museum  too. 

Another  relic  in  that  locality  well  worth  keeping  is  the 

Duryea  place,  a  striking  old  stone  farm-house  with  a  wide 

window  on  the  second  floor,  now  shut  in  with  a  wooden 

cover  supported  by  a  long  brace  pole  reaching  to  the  ground. 

254 


Over  the  Water 

Out  of  this  window,  it  is  said,  a  cannon  used  to  point. 
This  was  while  the  house  was  headquarters  for  Hessian 
officers  during  the  long  monotonous  months  when  "the 
main  army  of  the  British  lay  at  Flushing  from  Whitestone 
to  Jamaica";  and  upon  Flushing  Heights  there  stood  one 
of  the  tar  barrel  beacons  that  reached  from  New  York 
to  Norwich  Hill  near  Oyster  Bay.  The  British  officers 
used  to  kill  time  by  playing  at  Fives  against  the  blank  wall 
of  the  Quaker  meeting-house,  or  by  riding  over  to  Hemp- 
stead Plains  to  the  fox  hunts  —  where  the  Meadowbrook 
Hunt  Club  rides  to  the  hounds  to-day.  The  common 
soldiers  meanwhile  stayed  in  Flushing  and  amused  them- 
selves according  to  the  same  historian  by  rolling  cannon 
balls  about  a  course  of  nine  holes.  That  was  probably 
the  nearest  approach  to  the  great  game  at  that  time  in 
America  and  may  well  have  been  played  on  the  site  of 
the  present  Flushing  Golf  Club. 

Jesse  L.  Williams  in  New  York  Sketches 
Copyright,  igo2,  hy  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

The  City  of  Homes  -^c^y-        <:i.'        ^:n,        -si.'        <:i^ 

TN  the  general  outline  Brooklyn  is  a  great  fan.  The  big 
-*■  bridge  is  the  handle ;  and  starting  at  the  other  side  she 
spreads  in  every  direction.  If  she  were  built  long  and 
narrow  like  Manhattan  she  would  reach  out  half  the 
length  of  Long  Island,  but  rounded  as  she  is  every  part  of 
the  borough  is  within  an  hour's  ride  of  the  Manhattan  end 
of  the  bridge,  and  it  costs  only  five  cents  to  get  there.  No 
part  of  its  immense  suburbs  has  a  monopoly  of  growth. 
It  is  general.  It  is  not  so  very  long  ago  that  Flatbush 
seemed  a  long  way  from  New  York.  The  man  who  went 
to  Flatbush  to  live  moved  out  into  the  country.     To-day 

2SS 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

the  property  of  a  single  family  over  there  —  the  John 
Lefferts  estate  —  has  already  been  changed  from  farmland 
into  a  populous  city  in  itself.  It  has  been  built  up  with 
residences  such  as  line  the  Hudson  above  New  York. 
Quaint  old  houses,  dating  from  the  days  of  the  Dutch,  in 
which  great  oak  beams  are  made  fast  with  inch-thick  oak 
pins  in  the  scarcity  of  hand-made  nails,  are  being  pulled 
down  to  give  room  to  Queen  Anne  cottages  or  whatever 
is  the  current  architectural  Brummagem. 

Start  in  the  trolley  car  from  the  bridge  and  go  out  toward 
New  Utrecht  and  where  Fort  Hamilton  holds  the  entrance 
to  the  Narrows  and  the  story  is  the  same.  Build,  build, 
build,  not  the  summer  towns  which  have  been  there  for  nearly 
a  hundred  years,  but  populous  towns  of  all-the-year-round 
homes,  moving  from  the  over-peopled  tenements  of  Man- 
hattan to  the  freedom  of  yards  for  the  children  and  fresh 
air  for  all  —  and  the  drained  tenements  are  filled  again 
from  Latin  Europe  and  the  land  of  the  Slav. 

Let  any  one  who  doubts  go  trace  the  fronds  of  Brooklyn 
Fan  —  or  he  need  go  no  farther  than  Brooklyn's  business 
district.  He  will  see  the  streets  and  the  stores  crowded 
with  women.  If  he  counts  he  will  find  nearly  fifty  women 
to  one  man.  It  is  the  Borough  of  Homes,  and  the  women 
own  it.  Anonymous 

Coney  Island  ^^^^^        o        -"^i^        '"^^        ^^^^ 

npHERE  is  not  now,  and  never  has  been  in  the  world 
-'-    or  its  history,  a  pleasure  resort  approaching  Coney 
Island  in  the  elaborateness  or  ingenuity  of  its  devices  to 
wheedle  away  dimes  and  despondency. 

The  name  of  Coney  Island  has  been  for  years  a  byword 
of  plebeiance  at  its  worst.     Side-shows  in  wooden  shacks, 
256 


Over  the  Water 

peanuts  and  popcorn,  rag-throated  barkers,  hot  babies 
spilHng  out  of  tired  arms,  petty  swindles,  puerile  diversions, 
a  wooden  elephant,  a  Ferris  wheel,  an  observation  tower, 
hot  sands,  squaUing  children,  bathers  indecently  fat  or 
inhumanly  lean  shrieking  in  a  crowded  and  dirty  ocean, 
sweaty  citizens,  pick-pockets  picking  empty  pockets, 
lung-testers,  noisome  bicyclists,  merry-go-rounds,  weight- 
pounding  machines,  punching  machines,  "one-baby -down- 
one-cigar  ! "  —  ring  throwing  at  ugly  canes,  ball  throwing 
at  coons,  "guess-your-weight !"  —  tintype  tents,  dusty 
clam  chowder  served  by  toughs  in  maculate  aprons,  rel- 
iques  of  old  picnics,  a  captive  balloon,  squalling  babies 
covered  with  prickly  heat,  drooling  sots  and  boozy  women 
with  their  hair  in  strings,  a  board  walk  fetid  with  sweaty 
citizens,  museums  with  snake-charmers  who  could  charm 
nothing  else,  pretzels,  fly-haunted  pyramids  of  mucilagi- 
nous pies,  shrieking  babies  with  pins  sticking  in  them, 
spanked  by  weary  mothers  and  sworn  at  by  jaded  fathers, 
lemonade  where  overfed  flies  commit  suicide,  only  to  be  dis- 
interred by  unmanicured  thumbs,  nigrescent  bananas,  heel- 
marked  orange  peelings,  fractured  chicken  bones,  shooting 
galleries  snapping  and  banging  and  smelly  powder,  saloons 
odious  with  old  beer  slops  and  inebriates,  umbrellas  on 
the  sand  where  gap-toothed  bicyclists  grin  at  fat  beauties  of 
enormous  hip,  little  girls  and  boys  with  bony  legs  all  hives 
and  scratches  paddling  in  the  surf-lather  with  dripping 
drawers  and  fife-like  shrieks,  gaily  bedight  nymphs  proud 
of  their  shapes  and  dawdling  about  in  wet  bathing  suits 
that  keep  no  secrets,  poor  little  mewling  babies  that  really 
need  to  go  home,  dance  halls  where  flat-headed  youths 
and  women  with  plackets  agape  spiel  slowly  in  a  death- 
clutch,  German  bands  whose  music  sounds  like  horses 
s  257 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

with  the  heaves,  the  steeplechase,  where  men  and  women 
straddle  the  same  hobby  horse  and  slide  yelling  down  the 
ringing  grooves  of  small  change,  rancid  sandwiches,  sticky 
candies  made  of  adulterated  sweets  and  dye,  more  clam 
chowder,  banging  bumping  cars  on  creaking  trestles  filled 
with  yowling  couples,  tangle-faced  babies  howling  toward 
apoplexy,  dusty  shoes,  obsolete  linen,  draggled  skirts,  sweat, 
fatigue,  felicity,  —  that  is  the  Coney  Island  of  long  memory. 

There  were  just  two  things  about  it  that  were  worth 
while :  first  was  the  sense  of  delight  it  gave  you  to  get  back 
to  New  York;  second,  the  shoot-the -chutes,  where  one 
felt  the  rapture  of  a  seagull  swooping  to  the  waves  —  the 
long,  swift  glide  down  the  wet  incline,  and  the  glorious 
splash  into  the  flying  spray !  —  who  would  not  rather 
be  a  gondolier  on  one  of  those  flat  boats  than  Admiral 
Makaroff,  or  the  last  flying  machinist  who  spattered  to  the 
ground? 

But  these  were  the  two  exceptions  that  proved  Coney 
Island  to  be  a  nightmare  of  side-shows  in  wooden  shacks, 
peanuts  and  popcorn,  rag-throated  barkers,  hot  babies 
spilling  out  of  tired  arms  —  da  capo  al  fine. 

To-day,  though !  The  paltry  Aladdin  has  rubbed  his 
lamp.  Palaces  have  leapt  aloft  with  gleaming  minarets, 
lagoons  are  spread  beneath  arches  of  delight,  the  spoils  of 
the  world's  revels  are  spilled  along  the  beach,  rendering 
dull  and  petty  the  stately  pleasure  dome  that  Kubla  Khan 
decreed   in  Xanadu. 

One  night  in  the  winter  there  was  a  fire  —  a  suspicious 
fire  —  for  how  could  a  fire  be  both  accidental  and  benev- 
olent? But,  anyway,  in  one  crimson  night  the  blood-red 
waves  saw  the  plague  spot  cremated,  all  the  evils  and  ugli- 
ness cleansed  as  on  a  pyre.  The  next  morning  the  sun  with 
258 


Over  the  Water 

smiling  eye  beheld  acres  of  embers,  charred  timbers,  ashes. 
Coney /wf// 

Then  armies  of  carpenters  and  masons,  engineers, 
electricians  and  decorators  invaded  Gomorrah.  And  this 
year's  May  found  the  old  Coney  Island  metamorphosed, 
base  metals  transmuted  into  gold  —  or  at  least  into  gilt. 
Here  is  alchemy !  here  the  palpable  stone  of  philosophy ! 
Henceforward  London's  Earl's  Court  is  a  churl's  back- 
yard, the  fetes  of  Versailles  are  nursery  games,  the  Mardi 
Gras  of  New  Orleans,  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  St.  Louis, 
the  carnivals  of  Venice  are  sawdust  and  wax;  as  for  the 
rare  and  amazing  Durbar  of  India  —  that  is  an  everyday 
aflfair  here. 

Still,  on  the  outskirts  the  old  side-shows  persist  like 
parasites,  and  those  who  enjoy  nothing  until  it  is  ancient 
history  need  not  bewail  the  old  Coney  Island.  It  is  simply 
shoved  to  one  side.  In  its  old  abode  there  is  super-regal 
splendor.  Last  year's  Luna  Park  finds  this  year  a  rival. 
Dreamland,  and  the  two  exhausted  the  achievements  of 
past  and  the  ingenuities  of  present  device  as  completely  as 
their  passionate  press  agents  have  squeezed  dry  the  dic- 
tionary of  flattering  epithet.  There  is  no  adjective  left 
that  does  not  smell  of  advertisement.  So  nouns  and  nu- 
merals must  coldly  foreshow  what  now  exists  to  inflate 
the  mind  and  deflate  the  purse. 

Luna  Park  has  waxed  to  the  harvest  fulness.  It  claims 
to  be  greater  than  the  St.  Louis  Fair,  illuminated  beyond 
any  spot  on  earth;  it  has  reproduced  the  Court  of  Honor 
of  the  Bufi'alo  Pan-American  Exposition. 

It  covers  forty  acres,  twenty-four  of  them  under  shelter. 
Its  broad  sheet  of  water  is  not  only  swept  by  gondolas 
and  punts,  but  it  is  over-topped  by  a  three-ring  circus  sus- 
259 


The  Wayfarer  In  New  York 

pended  over  the  waves.  Here,  in  full  view  of  thousands, 
in  tiers  of  boxes  and  promenades,  the  spotted  horses,  the 
clowns,  the  acrobats,  jugglers,  hoop  artists,  intellectual 
elephants,  Arabian  pyramidists,  tumblers,  contortionists, 
disport  under  the  crackling  lashes  of  the  ringmaster,  with 
his  long-tailed  coat  and  his  "Hoop-la!"  From  skyish 
towers  wires  hang,  and  hereon  trapezists  and  men  and  women 
of  remarkable  equilibrium  do  the  impossible  a  hundred 
and  thirty  feet  above  the  waters  that  serve  for  a  net.  This 
circus  employs  the  most  famous  athletes,  yet  is  free  to  all 
who  enter  the  grounds. 

A  Japanese  tea  garden,  built  by  imp>orted  Japanese 
architects  and  wood-carvers  and  florists,  is  rival  to  Yeddo. 
In  the  flower  gardens  thousands  of  tinted  electric  bulbs 
are  hidden,  to  turn  the  night  into  noon.  Babylonian 
gardens  hang  over  all. 

Two  high  towers  with  suspended  baskets  will  whirl  the 
most  phlegmatic  giddy  with  centrifugal  thrills.  In  the 
Helter-Skelter  you  may  sit  down  on  a  polished  and  wind- 
ing slide  and  renew  the  delights  of  banister  days.  The 
famous  trip  to  the  Moon,  with  its  convincing  illusions,  is  still 
here,  and  you  may  go  also,  or  think  you  go,  twenty  thou- 
sand leagues  under  the  sea.  Infant  incubators,  a  scenic 
railway,  a  midnight  express,  a  German  village,  an  old  mill, 
the  sea  on  land,  a  monster  dance  hall,  a  laughing  show, 
a  shoot-the-chutes,  are  mere  details.  .   .  . 

The  rival  paradise.  Dreamland,  is  said  to  have  cost  over 
$3,000,000.  It  has  taken  over  the  old  Iron  Pier  and  built 
above  it  the  largest  ball  room  ever  made,  20,000  square 
feet;  beneath  is  the  restaurant  and  a  promenade,  and  be- 
neath all  the  cool  rush  of  the  surf.  The  company  runs  four 
large  steamers,  as  well  as  Santos-Dumont's  Airship  No.  9. 
260 


Over  the  Water 

In  Dreamland  you  find  a  street  called  "the  Bowery  with 
the  lid  off,"  the  spectacular  Fall  of  Pompeii,  a  haunted 
house,  a  reproduction  of  the  Doge's  Palace,  a  complete 
midget  village  inhabited  by  three  hundred  Lilliputians,  a 
miniature  railway,  a  double  shoot-the-chutes,  a  coasting 
trip  through  Switzerland,  a  leapfrog  railway,  a  camp  and 
battle  scene,  a  baby  incubator  plant,  Bostock's  Animal 
Show,  the  highest  of  observation  towers,  a  funny-room  from 
Paris  called  "  C'est-a-rire,"  and,  finally,  the  Chilkoot  Pass, 
a  great  bagatelle  board,  where  the  sliders  win  a  prize  if  they 
can  steer  themselves  into  certain  crevasses  in  the  glaciers. 
Besides  there  is  a  great  fire-fighting  scene,  not  to  mention 
a  theater  where  the  best-known  vaudevillians  hold  sway, 
and  innumerable  music. 

But  Luna  Park  and  Dreamland  are  not  the  only  spectacles 
of  Pantagruelian  proportions.  There  are  others  that  have 
cost  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  or  more,  such  as  the 
Johnstown  Flood,  in  vivid  reproduction,  and  the  trip  to 
the  North  Pole  by  way  of  a  completely  equipped  submarine 
with  an  amazingly  ingenious  illusion  of  the  sea  floor  and 
the  Arctic  realm.  There  is  also  a  huge  theater  where  a 
mimic  New  York  is  bombarded  and  destroyed  by  hostile 
fleets  after  a  furious  battle  with  the  crumbling  forts. 

Rupert  Hughes  in  The  Real  New  York 
Copyright,  jgo4 

Staten  Island  <:5>'        -^^        ^::>        ^::i>'        -"c^y 

TF  the  stranger  would  see  New  York  in  one  of  its 
-*•  most  charming  aspects,  or  if  the  citizen  would  refresh 
his  wearied  soul  with  an  hour's  cheering  communion  with 
Nature  in  her  heartiest  and  most  inspiriting  mood,  let 
him  hie  to  the  happy  retreats  of  Staten  Island.  Great 
261 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

is  the  pleasure  and  small  the  cost  of  the  journey,  for  — 
as  may  happily  be  said  of  each  of  the  attractive  points  in 
the  vicinage  of  the  tow^n  —  a  poor  little  sixpence  vs^ill  buy 
it  at  any  hour. 

One  of  the  busiest  places  on  the  island  is  the  thriving 
village  of  Tompkinsville  opposite  the  Quarantine  Ground, 
at  the  Narrows.  Back  of  this  village  the  ground  rises  boldly 
to  an  elevation  of  some  three  hundred  feet,  overlooking 
land  and  sea  for  miles  around,  and  commanding,  among 
other  wonderful  scenes,  the  view  of  the  bay  and  city  pre- 
sented in  our  frontispiece.  Down  in  the  foreground,  at 
the  left  of  the  picture,  is  a  glimpse  of  a  portion  of  the  town 
and  of  the  site  of  the  hospitals,  which  were  offered  as  a 
holocaust  to  the  popular  indignation  at  the  time  of  the 
memorable  Quarantine  rebellion,  in  the  summer  of  1857. 

Staten  Island,  or  Staaten  Eylandt  as  the  ancient  Dutch 
settlers  wrote  the  name,  was  known  to  the  Indians  under 
the  euphonious  appellation  of  Squehonga  Manackmong. 
It  forms  a  considerable  and  important  part  of  the  Empire 
State,  extending  some  fourteen  miles  in  length,  and  about 
eight  miles  at  the  point  of  its  greatest  breadth.  Guarding 
as  it  does  the  great  access  to  the  city  from  the  sea,  it  is,  in 
a  military  point  of  view,  a  place  of  high  consequence.  So 
the  British  General,  Sir  William  Howe,  regarded  it,  when 
he  established  himself  there,  first  of  all,  at  the  period  of 
the  American  Revolution,  keeping  possession  from  1776 
to  the  close  of  the  contest. 

The  island,  lying  as  it  does  within  half  an  hour's  sail 
of  the  metropolis,  and  possessing  great  and  varied  topo- 
graphical advantages,  has  become  a  favorite  resort  for 
summer  residence,  and  many  are  the  stately  chateaux 
and  the  cosey  cottages  which  crown  its  beautiful  heights  or 
262 


Over  the  Water 

nestle  in  its  peaceful  glens.  At  the  most  northern  point 
of  the  island,  where  it  is  separated  from  the  New  Jersey 
shore  by  the  kills,  as  the  little  strait  here  is  called,  lies  New 
Brighton  —  a  winsome  village  of  country  seats,  much  es- 
teemed by  the  denizens  of  the  city  when  the  dog-star  rages. 
New  Brighton  presents  the  pleasantest  of  faces  to  the  water, 
and  looks  out  upon  a  picture  equally  attractive  in  return. 

A  little  west  of  this  village  are  the  grounds  of  that  famous 
charity  for  superannuated  sons  of  the  sea,  known  as  the 
Sailor's  Snug  Harbor.  This  fortunate  establishment 
was  founded  in  i8or,  by  Captain  Randall,  and  endowed 
by  him  with  farmlands  then  far  out  of  the  city  proper,  and 
valued  at  the  time  at  some  fifty  thousand  dollars ;  but  which 
are  at  this  day  in  the  heart  of  the  most  densely  populated 
and  most  valuable  section  of  the  metropolis,  and  are 
measured  by  inches  instead  of  acres. 

T.  Addison  Richards  in  Harper's  Magazine 

Hoboken,  1831  '"C>        ^'C^'        <:ix        <::>        <^ 

A  T  New  York,  as  everywhere  else,  the  churches 
^  show  within,  during  the  time  of  service,  like  beds  of 
tulips,  so  gay,  so  bright,  so  beautiful,  are  the  long  rows 
of  French  bonnets  and  pretty  faces;  rows  but  rarely 
broken  by  the  unribboned  heads  of  the  male  population; 
the  proportion  is  about  the  same  as  I  have  remarked  else- 
where. Excepting  at  New  York,  I  never  saw  the  other 
side  of  the  picture,  but  there  I  did.  On  the  opposite  side 
of  the  North  River,  about  three  miles  higher  up,  is  a  place 
called  Hoboken.  A  gentleman  who  possessed  a  handsome 
mansion  and  grounds  there,  also  possessed  the  right  of 
ferry;  and  to  render  this  productive,  he  has  restricted  his 
pleasure-grounds  to  a  few  beautiful  acres,  laying  out  the 
263 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

remainder  simply  and  tastefully  as  a  public  walk.  It  is 
hardly  possible  to  imagine  one  of  greater  attraction;  a 
broad  belt  of  light  underwood  and  flowering  shrubs,  studded 
at  intervals  with  lofty  forest  trees,  runs  for  two  miles  along 
a  cliff  which  overhangs  the  matchless  Hudson;  sometimes 
it  feathers  the  rocks  down  to  its  very  margin,  and  at  others 
leaves  a  pebbly  shore,  just  rude  enough  to  break  the  gentle 
waves,  and  make  a  music  which  mimics  softly  the  loud 
chorus  of  the  ocean.  Through  this  beautiful  little  wood 
a  broad,  well-gravelled  terrace  is  led  by  every  point  which 
can  exhibit  the  scenery  to  advantage;  narrower  and  wider 
paths  diverge  at  intervals,  some  into  the  deeper  shadow  of 
the  woods,  and  some  shelving  gradually  to  the  pretty  coves 
below. 

The  price  of  entrance  to  this  little  Eden  is  the  six  cents 
you  pay  at  the  ferry.  We  went  there  on  a  bright  Sunday 
afternoon,  expressly  to  see  the  humors  of  the  place. 
Many  thousand  persons  were  scattered  through  the  grounds; 
of  these  we  ascertained,  by  repeatedly  counting,  that  nine- 
teen-twentieths  were  men.    The  ladies  were  at  church.  .  .  . 

It  is  impossible  not  to  feel,  after  passing  one  Sunday  in 
the  churches  and  chapels  of  New  York,  and  the  next  in  the 
gardens  of  Hoboken,  that  the  thousands  of  well-dressed 
men  you  see  enjoying  themselves  at  the  latter,  have  made 
over  the  thousands  of  well-dressed  women  you  saw  ex- 
hibited at  the  former,  into  the  hands  of  the  priests,  at 
least  for  the  day.  The  American  people  arrogate  to  them- 
selves a  character  of  superior  morality  and  religion,  but  this 
division  of  their  hours  of  leisure  does  not  give  me  a  favor- 
able idea  of  either. 

Mrs.  Trollope  in  Domestic  Manners  of  the 
Americans 

264 


Over  the  Water 

Greenpoint  -oy  ^cy  ^^^  'Qy  <::>  ^;::y 
TF  any  spot  on  the  globe  can  be  found  where  even  Spring 
-■-  has  lost  the  sweet  trick  of  making  herself  charm- 
ing, a  cynic  in  search  of  an  opportunity  for  some 
such  morose  discovery  might  thank  his  baleful  stars  were 
chance  to  drift  him  upon  Greenpoint.  Whoever  named 
the  place  in  past  days  must  have  done  so  with  a  double 
satire;  for  Greenpoint  is  not  a  point,  nor  is  it  ever  green. 
Years  ago  it  began  by  being  the  sluggish  suburb  of  a 
thriftier  and  smarter  suburb,  Brooklyn.  By  degrees  the 
latter  broadened  into  a  huge  city,  and  soon  its  neighbor 
village  stretched  out  to  it  arms  of  straggling  huts  and 
swampy  river-line,  in  doleful  welcome.  To-day  the 
affiliation  is  complete.  Man  has  said  let  it  all  be  Brooklyn, 
and  it  is  all  Brooklyn.  But  the  sovereign  dreariness  of 
Greenpoint,  like  an  unpropitiated  god,  still  remains.  Its 
melancholy,  its  ugliness,  its  torpor,  its  neglect,  all  preserve 
an  unimpaired  novelty.  It  is  very  near  New  York,  and 
yet  in  atmosphere,  suggestion,  vitality,  it  is  leagues  away. 
Our  noble  city,  with  its  magnificent  maritime  approaches, 
its  mast-thronged  docks,  its  lordly  encircling  rivers,  its 
majesty  of  traffic,  its  gallant  avenues  of  edifices,  its  loud 
assertion  of  life,  and  its  fine  promise  of  riper  culture,  fades 
into  a  dim  memory  when  you  have  touched,  after  only  a 
brief  voyage,  upon  this  forlorn  opposite  shore. 

No  Charon  rows  you  across,  though  your  short  trip  has 
too  often  the  most  funereal  associations.  You  take  passage 
in  a  squat  little  steamboat  at  either  of  two  eastern  ferries, 
and  are  lucky  if  a  hearse  with  its  satellite  coaches  should 
fail  to  embark  in  your  company;  for,  curiously,  the  one 
enlivening  fact  associable  with  Greenpoint  is  its  close 
nearness  to  a  famed  Roman  Catholic  cemetery.  .  .  . 
265 


The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

But  Greenpoint,  like  a  hardened  conscience,  still  has  her 
repentant  surprises.     She  is  not  quite  a  thing  of  sloth  and 
penury.     True,  the  broad  street  that  leads  from  steam- 
boat to  cemetery  is  lined  with  squalid  homes,  and  the 
mourners  who  are  so  incessantly  borne  along  to  Calvary 
must  see  little  else  than  beer-sellers  standing  slippered  and 
coatless  beside  their  doorways,  or  thin,  pinched  women 
haggling  with  the  venders  of  sickly  groceries.     But  else- 
where one  may  find  by-streets  lined   with   low  wooden 
dwellings  that  hint  of  neatness  and  suggest  a  better  grade 
of  living.     A  yellowish  drab  prevails  as  the  hue  of  these 
houses;  they  seem  all  to  partake  of  one  period,  like  certain 
homogeneous  fossils.    But  they  do  not  breathe  of  antiquity ; 
they  are  fanciful  with  trellised  piazzas  and  other  modern 
embellishments  of  carpentry;  sometimes  they  possess  minia- 
ture Corinthian  pillars,  faded  by  the  trickle  of  rain  between 
their  tawny  flutings,  as  if  stirred  with  the  dumb  desire  to 
be  white  and  classic.     Scant  gardens  front  them,  edged 
with  a  few  yards  of  ornamental  fence.     High  basement 
windows  stare  at  you  from  a  foundation  of  brick.     They 
are  very  prosaic,   chiefly  from  their    lame  effort  to 
be  picturesque ;  and  when  you  look  down  toward 
the  river,  expecting  to  feel  refreshed  by  its 
gleam,   you   are    disheartened    at    the 
way  in  which   lumber-yards  and 
sloop-wharves      have      quite 
shut  any  glimpse   of   it 
from      your     eyes. 
Edgar    Fawcett  in 
An  Ambitious  Woman. 
Copyright,    1883, 
by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
266 


The  New  New  York 

By  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 

With  124  illustrations  (including  26  color  plates)  by  Joseph 
Pennell. 

The  happy  collaboration  of  Professor  Van  Dyke  and  Mr. 
Pennell  has  resulted  in  the  production  of  what  will  doubtless 
be  judged  the  most  attractive  book  that  has  been  written 
about  the  city  of  New  York.  Professor  Van  Dyke,  who 
knows  the  city  from  long  association,  has  made  his  text 
frankly  and  delightfully  descriptive  of  the  varied  aspects  of 
New  York.  Mr.  Pennell  has  found  in  the  streets  and  the 
tall  buildings,  the  water  fronts  and  the  parks,  the  bridges 
and  the  rugged  sky  line,  inspiration  for  some  of  the  most 
effective  pictures  he  has  ever  made.  No  such  thorough  study 
of  the  essential  characteristics  of  what  is  really  the  most 
interesting,  because  it  is  the  most  living,  city  in  the  world  has 
yet  been  accomplished.  Professor  Van  Dyke  sees,  far  in 
the  future,  the  time  when  New  York  will  be  a  completed 
work,  a  city  designed  and  built  on  a  scale  unheard  of  before. 
Some  glimpse  of  what  this  new  creation  will  be  is  afforded 
us  in  Mr.  Pennell's  remarkably  sympathetic  sketches. 
Author  and  artist  alike  have  caught  the  essential  spirit  of 
New  York,  and  each,  through  the  medium  of  his  own  art, 
has  admirably  expressed  it. 

Now  ready. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


London's  Lure 

An  Anthology  in  Prose  and  Verse 

By  HELEN  and  LEWIS  MELVILLE 

A  selection  of  what  poets  and  prose  writers  have  said  about 
the  great  metropolis  —  that  capital  of  all  Europe  which  has 
for  most  Americans  the  closest  attraction  and  the  most  last- 
ing charm.  Curious  out-of-the-way  places  and  equally 
curious  out-of-the-way  people  are  tucked  away  in  some 
parts  of  the  book,  while  elsewhere,  Westminster  Abbey, 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  other  of  the  more  renowned  parts 
of  the  city  come  in  for  their  share  of  treatment.  Every 
section  of  London  is  here  and  all  the  different  viewpoints 
from  which  it  has  been  regarded,  as  well.  The  authors 
selected  range  from  Herrick,  Shelley,  Lamb,  and  Hazlitt 
to  Hood,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Wilde. 

Cloth,  $i.2j  net 

The  Book  of  Christmas 

With  an  Introduction  by  Hamilton  W.  Mabie 

In  this  book  have  been  gathered  together  the  best  things 
that  have  been  written  about  Christmas,  about  the  spirit  of 
the  time,  of  the  old  customs  and  beliefs,  the  appropriate 
sports  and  revels,  the  best  Christmas  carols  and  hymns,  etc. 
To  accompany  these  Christmas  classics  Mr.  George  W. 
Edwards  has  made  a  large  number  of  admirable  decorative 
drawings,  appropriate  to  the  various  sections  into  which  the 
contents  are  divided.  In  addition,  a  large  number  of  cele- 
brated pictures  by  great  artists  have  been  reproduced  in 
these  pages.  The  greatest  amount  of  attention  has  been 
bestowed  upon  every  detail  that  goes  to  the  making  of  a 
volume  attractive  to  the  eye  of  the  true  book  lover. 

Now  ready 

PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


The  Gentlest  Art 

A  Choice  of  Letters  by  Enterta.ining  H^nds 

Edited  by  E.  V.  LUCAS 

An  anthology  of  letter-writing  so  human,  interesting,  and  amus- 
ing from  first  to  last,  as  almost  to  inspire  one  to  attempt  the 
restoration  of  the  lost  art. 

"There  is  hardly  a  letter  among  them  all  that  one  would  have 
left  out,  and  the  book  is  of  such  pleasant  size  and  appearance, 
that  one  would  not  have  it  added  to,  either."  —  T/ie  New  York 
Times. 

"  The  author  has  made  his  selections  with  admirable  care.  We 
do  not  miss  a  single  old  favorite.  He  has  given  us  all  that  is 
best  in  letter-writing,  and  the  classification  under  such  heads  as 
'  Children  and  Grandfathers,"  '  The  Familiar  Manner,"  '  The 
Grand  Style,'  '  Humorists  and  Oddities  '  is  everything  that  can 
be  desired."'  —  TAe  Argonaut. 

"  Letters  of  news  and  of  gossip,  of  polite  nonsense,  of  humor 
and  pathos,  of  friendship,  of  quiet  reflection,  stately  letters  in 
the  grand  manner,  and  naive  letters  by  obscure  and  ignorant 
folk."" 

Cloth,  $1.2^  net 

The  Friendly  Craft 

Edited  by  ELIZABETH  D.  HANSCOM 

In  this  volume  the  author  has  done  for  American  letters  what 
Mr.  Lucas  did  for  English  in  "  The  Gentlest  Art."' 

"...  An  unusual  anthology.  A  collection  of  American  letters, 
some  of  them  written  in  the  Colonial  period  and  some  of  them 
yesterday ;  all  of  them  particularly  human ;  many  of  them 
charmingly  easy  and  conversational,  as  pleasant,  bookish  friends 
talk  in  a  fortunate  hour.  The  editor  of  this  collection  has  an 
unerring  taste  for  literary  quality  and  a  sense  of  humor  which 
shows  itself  in  prankish  headlines.  ...  It  is  a  great  favor  to 
the  public  to  bring  together  in  just  this  informal  way  the  delight- 
ful letters  of  our  two  centuries  of  history."'  —  The  Independent. 
"  There  should  be  a  copy  of  this  delightful  book  in  the  collec- 
tion of  every  lover  of  that  which  is  choice  in  literature."  —  The 
New  York  Times. 

Cloth,  $1.2^  net 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


The  Ladies'  Pageant 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 
"An  unusual  collection  of  poetry  and  prose  in  comment  upon 
the  varying  aspects  of  the  feminine  form  and  nature,  wherein  is 
set  forth  for  the  delectation  of  man  what  great  writers  from 
Chaucer  to  Ruskin  have  said  about  the  eternal  feminine.  The 
result  is  a  decidedly  companionable  volume."  —  Town  and 
Country. 

"To  possess  this  book  is  to  fill  your  apartment  —  your  lonely 
farm  parlor  or  little  '  flat '  drawing-room  in  which  few  sit  — 
with  the  rustle  of  silks  and  the  swish  of  lawns ;  to  comfort  your 
ear  with  seemly  wit  and  musical  laughter;  and  to  remind  you 
how  sweet  an  essence  ascends  from  the  womanly  heart  to  the 
high  altar  of  the  Maker  of  Women."  —  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

Cloth,  $i.2j  net 

Some  Friends  of  Mine 

A  Ra.tly  of  Men 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

At  last  the  sterner  sex  is  to  have  its  literary  dues.  In  this 
little  volume  Mr.  Lucas  has  essayed  to  do  for  men  what  he  did 
for  the  heroines  of  life  and  poetry  and  fiction  in  '  The  Ladies' 
Pageant.'  No  other  editor  has  so  deft  a  hand  for  work  of  this 
character,  and  this  volume  is  as  rich  a  fund  of  amusement  and 
instruction  as  all  the  previous  ones  of  the  author  have  been. 
"  Mr.  Lucas  does  not  compile.  What  he  does,  rather,  is  to 
assemble  a  quantity  of  rough  material,  quarried  from  the  classics, 
and  then  to  fashion  out  of  it  a  fabric  stamped  with  his  own  per- 
sonality. .  .  •  He  makes  a  little  book  in  which  old  po^ms  and 
bits  of  old  prose  take  on  a  new  character,  through  being  placed 
in  a  relation  to  one  another  determined  by  Mr.  Lucas'  peculiar 
fancy.  .  .  .  He  will  always  be  sure  of  an  appreciative  pbblic." 
—  The  New  York  Tribune. 

N(nv  ready 

^  \j 
PUBLISHED    BY  Vi 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


UniversiN'  o(  Calilornia.  Los  Angeles 


L  006  212  380  7 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  162  449 


